it might be
dull, though not in the degree Sir John's Richmond lady found it.

With a smile of compassion at my want of taste, she said, "she perceived
I was no gardener. To me," added she, "the winter has charms of its own.
If I were not afraid of the light habit of introducing Providence on an
occasion not sufficiently important, I would say that he seems to reward
those who love the country well enough to live in it the whole year, by
making the greater part of the winter the busy season for gardening
operations. If I happen to be in town a few days only, every sun that
shines, every shower that falls, every breeze that blows, seems wasted,
because I do not see their effects upon my plants."

"But surely," said I, "the winter at least suspends your enjoyment.
There is little pleasure in contemplating vegetation in its torpid
state, in surveying

The naked shoots, barren as lances,

as Cowper describes the winter-shrubbery."

"The pleasure is in the preparation," replied she. "When all appears
dead and torpid to you idle spectators, all is secretly at work; nature
is busy in preparing her treasures under ground, and art has a hand in
the process. When the blossoms of summer are delighting you mere
amateurs, then it is that we professional people," added she, laughing,
"are really idle. The silent operations of the winter now produce
themselves--the canvas of nature is covered--the great Artist has laid
on his colors--then we petty agents lay down our implements, and enjoy
our leisure in contemplating _his_ work."

I had never known her so communicative; but my pleased attention,
instead of drawing her on, led her to check herself. Ph[oe]be, who had
been busily employed in trimming a flaunting yellow Azalia, now turned
to me and said: "Why it is only the Christmas-month that our labors are
suspended, and then we have so much pleasure that we want no business;
such in-door festivities and diversions that that dull month is with us
the gayest in the year." So saying, she called Lucilla to assist her in
tying up the branch of an orange-tree which the wind had broken.

I was going to offer my services when Mrs. Stanley joined us, before I
could obtain an answer to my question about these Christmas diversions.
A stranger, who had seen me pursuing Mrs. Stanley in her walks, might
have supposed not the daughter, but the mother, was the object of my
attachment. But with Mrs. Stanley I could always talk of Lucilla,