We may talk of the dreariness of winter; and winter, no doubt, is desolate: but what in the world is more dreary to eyes inured to the verdure and bloom of Nature--, "The pomp of groves and garniture of fields," -- than a close room in a suburban lodging-house; the sun piercing every corner; nothing fresh, nothing cool, nothing fragrant to be seen, felt, or inhaled; all dust, glare, noise, with a chandler's shop, perhaps, next door?
Sidney armed with a pair of scissors, was cutting the pictures out of a story-book, which his mother had bought him the day before.

Philip, who, of late, had taken much to rambling about the streets--it may be, in hopes of meeting one of those benevolent, eccentric, elderly gentlemen, he had read of in old novels, who suddenly come to the relief of distressed virtue; or, more probably, from the restlessness that belonged to his adventurous temperament;--Philip had left the house since breakfast.
"Oh! how hot this nasty room is!" exclaimed Sidney, abruptly, looking up from his employment.

"Sha'n't we ever go into the country, again, mamma ?" "Not at present, my love." "I wish I could have my pony; why can't I have my pony, mamma ?" "Because,--because--the pony is sold, Sidney." "Who sold it ?" "Your uncle." "He is a very naughty man, my uncle: is he not?
But can't I have another pony?
It would be so nice, this fine weather!" "Ah! my dear, I wish I could afford it: but you shall have a ride this week! Yes," continued the mother, as if reasoning with herself, in excuse of the extravagance, "he does not look well: poor child! he must have exercise." "A ride!--oh! that is my own kind mamma!" exclaimed Sidney, clapping his hands.

"Not on a donkey, you know!--a pony.

The man down the street, there, lets ponies.