A narrow grave-yard
           in the heart
               of a bustling,
           indifferent city,
         seen from the windows
               of a gloomy-looking inn,
           is at no
              time an object
                   of enlivening suggestion;
        and the spectacle
            is not at its best
             when the mouldy tombstones
                   and funereal umbrage
                  have received
                       the ineffectual refreshment
                     of a dull,
           moist snow-fall.

    If,
           while the air
            is thickened
                   by this frosty drizzle,
         the calendar
            should happen to indicate
             that the blessed vernal season
                is already six weeks old,
           it will be admitted
             that no depressing influence
                is absent from the scene.

    This fact
        was keenly
              felt on a certain 12th
                   of May,
           upwards of thirty years since,
         by a lady
             who stood
                  looking out
                       of one
                     of the windows
                           of the best hotel
                    in the ancient
                       city of Boston.

    She had stood
          there for half an hour
        --stood there,
           that is,
         at intervals;
        for from time to time
             she turned back
                   into the room and
                  measured its length
                       with a restless step.

    In the chimney-place
        was a red-hot fire
          which emitted
               a small blue flame;
        and in front
               of the fire,
           at a table,
         sat a young man
             who was busily
                  plying a pencil.

    He had a number
           of sheets of paper
         cut into small equal squares,
           and he
            was apparently
                  covering them with pictorial designs
          -- strange-looking figures.

    He worked rapidly and attentively,
           sometimes threw
              back his head and
                  held out his drawing
                       at arm's-length,
         and kept up a soft,
           gay-sounding humming and whistling.

    The lady
          brushed past him
               in her walk;
        her much-trimmed skirts were voluminous.

    She never
          dropped her eyes
               upon his work;
        she only turned them,
           occasionally,
         as she passed,
           to a mirror
              suspended above the toilet-table
                   on the
                       other side of the room.

    Here she paused a moment,
           gave a pinch
               to her waist
             with her two hands,
         or raised these members
           --they were
               very plump and pretty--
            to the multifold braids
               of her hair,
           with a movement half caressing,
         half corrective.

    An attentive observer
        might have fancied
         that during these periods
               of desultory self-inspection her face
            forgot its melancholy;
        but as soon as
             she neared the window
                  again it
                began to proclaim
             that she
                was a very ill-pleased woman.

    And indeed,
           in what met her eyes
            there was little
                  to be pleased with.

    The window-panes
        were battered by the sleet;
           the head-stones in the grave-yard
               beneath seemed
              to be holding themselves askance
                  to keep it
                       out of their faces.

    A tall iron
           railing protected them
               from the street,
           and on the
               other side
                   of the railing an assemblage
                       of Bostonians
            were trampling
                   about in the liquid snow.

    Many of them
        were looking up and down;
           they appeared
              to be waiting for something.

    From time
          to time a strange vehicle
        drew near to the place
         where they stood,
          --such a vehicle
               as the lady
                   at the window,
           in spite
               of a considerable acquaintance
             with human inventions,
         had never seen before:
         a huge,
           low omnibus,
         painted in brilliant colors,
           and decorated apparently with
              jangling bells,
         attached to a species
               of groove
             in the pavement,
           through which it was dragged,
         with a great deal
               of rumbling,
           bouncing and scratching,
         by a couple
               of remarkably small horses.

    When it
          reached a certain
              point the people
                   in front of the grave-yard,
           of whom much
               the greater number
            were women,
         carrying satchels and parcels,
           projected themselves
               upon it
                   in a compact body
         --a movement suggesting the
              scramble for places
                   in a life-boat at sea--
           and were
              engulfed in its large interior.