A FOGGY MORNING. 



8 9 



that is music to him who loves the country. It 

 was rather a fretful, long-drawn pshaw ! and 

 fittingly voiced the surroundings. 



A winter in the tropics may be very delight- 

 ful, but an " open " winter in New Jersey is an 

 utter abomination. 



WE know too little of the world except when 

 bathed in sunshine. Not that I recognize any 

 advantage in groping in darkness this is too 

 like dogmatizing on a theory ; but between the 

 obscurity of night and brilliancy of the day there 

 are happy mediums, too commonly neglected. I 

 have lately been wandering through a thick fog. 

 Not a metaphysical, but a material one ; nor was 

 it gloomy. The fog was thick, yet through it 

 streamed the level rays of the rising sun, gilding 

 the topmost twigs of the forest trees, roofing 

 with gold a trackless wild beneath. So changed 

 for an hour or more was every long-familiar 

 scene that, as I wandered, I was a stranger in a 

 strange land. 



The late John Cassin, the ornithologist, has 

 left on record how a vast multitude of crows tar- 

 ried for some time in Independence Square, 



