Five times has Boston Common, old, honored in history’s story, slept
beneath its snowy counterpane, all damaskeened by winter sunbeam’s glory.
Five times have brooks in Yankee vales burst icy chains to flee, with
gladsome shouts of merriment, on joyous journey to the sea.
Five times have Massachusetts hills and dales been garbed in cloak of
emerald, embroidered wide in gay designs of daffodils and daisies since
the grand old Commonwealth was shocked by the commission of a horrid
crime by one called Burton.
An old sign still swings before an even older building, in one of
Boston’s most crooked streets. “J. Dunlap, Shipping and Banking,” is what
the passersby may read on the old sign.
Sometimes an old man is seen to enter the building above the door of
which is suspended this sign; he is much bent and white of hair, but
sturdy still, despite some four-score years. All men of Boston accord
great respect to this handsome old gentleman.
The man who is head and manager of all the business done within the old
building where that sign is seen, has the tanned and rugged look of one
who had long gazed upon the bright surface of the sea. While he is only
seen in landsmen’s dress, it seems that clothing of a nautical cut would
best befit his stalwart figure.
This head man at J. Dunlap’s office is cavalier-in-chief to three old
ladies, with whom he often is seen driving in Boston’s beautiful suburbs;
one of these white-haired old dames he addresses as “Mother,” another
as “Mrs. Church,” and the most withered one of the three he calls “Miss
Arabella.”
He has been seen, too, with a sweet, sad, yet very lovely young woman in
whose glorious crown of gold-brown hair silver silken threads run in and
out.
[Illustration: “Lucy, I have always loved you.”