38 TROTTY'S WEDDING TOUR. “ Well go on with it to-morrow,” said Lill. This was the story: BOBBIT’S HOTEL. A urttLe fellow, not much higher than a yard-stick, stunted and stubbed like a dwarf pear-tree; as dirty as the mud under his feet; as ragged as the Coliseum after the great gale; with little, restless, grimy hands, with little, restless, snapping eyes, with a little, hungry mouth, bare feet (or nearly, —he wore some holes with a little shoe to them), bare hands, bare knees sticking though his trousers, a hat without a rim,—a boy without a bed, — that was Bob- bit. It was six o’clock of a January night, and storming too. Bobbit was standing — never mind the name of the street — but he was standing at the foot of it (it was in Boston), in a little snow-drift, up to his knees. The slect went down his neck, and up his sleeves, and into the holes in his trousers, and into the holes with a little shoe on them; it hung ina fringe on his old hat, and swung to and fro like the fringe which ladies wear headed with guipure lace upon their cloaks. Bobbit thought of that, looking out from behind the little icicles ; he had seen a great many handsome cloaks thataday ; it was what he called a “handsome day”; something was going on at the Music Hall, I believe, and the streets had been as full of pretty things as the sky was of sunlight, till