Hopes are like women, there is a touch of angel
about them all, but there are two sorts. My boy Tom has been blowing a
lot of birds'-eggs, and threading them on a string; I have been doing
the same thing with hopes, and here's a few of them, good, bad, and
indifferent.
The sanguine man's hope pops up in a moment like Jack-in-the-box; it
works with a spring, and does not go by reason. Whenever this man looks
out of the window he sees better times coming, and although it is nearly
all in his own eye and nowhere else, yet to see plum-puddings in the
moon is a far more cheerful habit than croaking at every thing like a
two-legged frog. This is the kind of brother to be on the road with on a
pitch-dark night, when it pours with rain, for he carries candles in his
eyes and a fireside in his heart. Beware of being misled by him, and
then you may safely keep his company. His fault is that he counts his
chickens before they are hatched, and sells his herrings before they are
in the net. All his sparrows'-eggs are bound to turn into thrushes, at
the least, if not partridges and pheasants. Summer has fully come, for
he has seen one swallow. He is sure to make his, fortune at his new
shop, for he had not opened the door five minutes before two of the
neighbors crowded in; one of them wanted a loaf of bread on trust, and
the other asked change for a shilling. He is certain that the squire
means to give him his custom, for he saw him reading the name over the
shop door as he rode past.
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