Summer JFlotoer*. 147 



Here grow mint, marjoram, anise, sweet-basil, 

 catnip, lavender, thyme, coriander, summer- 

 savory, and, last but not least of the fragrant 

 labiates, the pungent sage, that will ruin the 

 dressing of many a Thanksgiving turkey. A 

 sassafras-tree not unfrequently grows, by acci- 

 dent or design, somewhere about the yard ; and 

 there is sure to be a red horse-chestnut, or 

 a trumpet-flower, for the humming-birds to 

 plunge in. 



How the swallows wheel and dive over the 

 weather-beaten barn, and twitter among the 

 eaves they have visited generation after genera- 

 tion ! And what a honey-laden wave surges 

 over the neighboring clover-field ! I recall such 

 a farmstead on the crest of the Livingston hills, 

 where farm-life always appears at its pleasant- 

 est. All around it extends the panorama of 

 wood, ravine, and purple upland, changing with 

 every change of atmosphere, open to every effect 

 of sun and cumulus-cloud. Here, I thought, a 

 philosopher might find the coveted stone. Life 

 always seems so restful and its current so placid 

 on the summer hills. But we forget the blight- 

 ing frost, the moaning blast, the wintry shroud. 

 In life, things are pretty evenly balanced, after 

 all ; and while summer is delightful in the coun- 

 try, to the most of us, in winter, it is pleasanter 



