At what precise minute that little airy musician doffs his night gear, prepares to tune up his unseasonable matins, we are not naturalists enough to determine. But, having been tempted once or twice, in earlier life, to assist at those ceremonies, we confess our curiosity abated. We are no longer ambitious of being the sun's courtiers, to attend at his morning levees. We deny not that there is something sprightly and vigorous, at the outset especially, in these break of day excursions.
Some people have no good of their dreams.
Like fast feeders, they gulp them too grossly, to taste them curiously. We have too much respect for these spiritual communications, to let them go so lightly. We are not so stupid, or so careless, as that Imperial forgetter of his dreams, that we should need a seer to remind us of the form of them. The drama has shut in upon us at the fourth act. We have nothing here to expect, but in a short time a sick bed, and a dismissal.