Fresh Leaves. Fern Fanny

how my head snaps! Don’t tell me any living woman ever had such a headache before – because it will fill me with disgust. What o’clock is it? “Twelve.” Merciful man! only twelve o’clock! I thought it was five. How am I to get through the day, I would like to know, for this headache won’t let up till sundown; it never does. “Read to me.” What’ll you read? “Tom Moore!” as if I were not sick enough already! Moore! with his nightingales, and bulbuls, and jessamines; and loves and doves, and roses and poesies – till the introduction of an uneducated wildcat, or the tearingest kind of a hyena in his everlasting gardens, would be an untold relief. No – I hate Moore. Beside – he is the fellow who said, “When away from the lips that we love, we’ll make love to the lips that are near.” No wonder he was baptized more– carnivorous old profligate.

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      Is a formal, listless walk, in a half-mile procession, to answer the purpose of exercise for young, growing girls confined at least ten hours a day over their lessons, and crowded at night into insufficient sleeping-rooms? – from which the highest prices paid for tuition, so far as my observation extends, furnish no immunity.