A WORD AT THE START. '[ 



look at one when leaving the door-step. Perhaps it is 

 snowing. Well, the very creatures that the observant 

 walker loves to see can not more readily dodge the snow- 

 storm than he can ; and is it not a sufficient incentive 

 to learn what the birds and mammals are about when 

 snowed up, to warrant a ramble over snow-clad fields 

 and in the leafless woods ? Who that has seen a cardinal 

 grosbeak in the full glory of his crimson dress, perched 

 upon a bare twig, with nothing but untrodden snow for a 

 background, and heard his cheery whistle come ringing 

 through the crisp air, can ever forget it? Such a sight 

 is not to be witnessed from your sitting-room windows. 

 No, no, there is reason for rambling at all times, with 

 perhaps one exception. In the noon of midsummer 

 days it is proper to remain in-doors to rest, to keep cool, 

 if happily you can. Nature herself, just then, is taking 

 a nap. 



A word, now, as to where my home is, for I have 

 never rambled elsewhere. I will not attempt a descrip- 

 tion ; for why, indeed, should I expose its nakedness ? It 

 came to me not through purchase, but by the accident of 

 birth. Just two centuries ago, a lad came from Notting- 

 ham, England, to what was then a mere ghost of a vil- 

 lage, but is now the present city of Philadelphia. By 

 chance he came into " the Jerseys," and, when of age, 

 chose, as a site for the home he purposed building, a 

 tract on Crosswicks Creek, a navigable stream that enters 

 the Delaware Eiver at Bordentown. By trade a wheel- 

 wright, but by choice a farmer, he throve well, and added 

 hundreds of acres to his original purchase ; and now, 

 two centuries later, I find myself anchored within sight 

 of where my respected ancestor dwelt. Yes, and writ- 

 ing these lines at a curious old desk that belonged to his 



