"Pollypet is moulting!" explains the Lady of the Parrot, with a laugh.
Dear, merry, kindly, pitiful life of the studios!--irresponsible,
perhaps, and not of vast economic importance, but so human and so
enchanting; so warm when it is bitter cold, so rich when the larder is
empty, so gay when disappointment and failure are sitting wolf-like at
the door.
A rich woman who loves the Village and often-times goes down there to
buy her gifts rather than get them from the more conservative places
uptown, told me that once when she went to a Village gift-shop to
purchase a number of presents, she found the proprietor away. She was
asked to pick out what she wanted, and make a list. She did. Nobody
even questioned her accuracy. The next time she went she had a friend
with her, who was, I imagine, more or less thrilled by the notion of
approaching the bad, bold city,--she was from out of town. The
shopkeeper was out in the back garden dressed in blue overalls and
shirt, hoeing vigorously.
"Is this the heart of Bohemia?" demanded the astonished provincial.
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