Mr.Miller had one for each guest already written, all of which we accepted and pronounced very good.
Strange to say, a most excellent dinner emerged from all this uproar and confusion.

The table, with its silver, china, flowers, and rich viands, the guests in satins, velvets, jewels, soft laces, and bright cravats, together reflecting all the colors of the prism, looked as beautiful as the rainbow after a thunderstorm.
Twenty years ago I made my last sad visit to that spot so rich with pleasant memories of bygone days.

A few relatives and family friends gathered there to pay the last tokens of respect to our noble cousin.
It was on one of the coldest days of gray December that we laid him in the frozen earth, to be seen no more.

He died from a stroke of apoplexy in New York city, at the home of his niece, Mrs.Ellen Cochrane Walter, whose mother was Mr.Smith's only sister.

The journey from New York to Peterboro was cold and dreary, and climbing the hills from Canastota in an open sleigh, nine hundred feet above the valley, with the thermometer below zero, before sunrise, made all nature look as sombre as the sad errand on which we came.
Outside the mansion everything in its wintry garb was cold and still, and all within was silent as the grave.