SUMMER. 57 



the new host. It is to this sanctuary that my footsteps first lead me, and, 

 with a longing that will not be withstood, I find myself in front of the 

 great white door. I lift the latch ; a cool pungent odor of oak wood greets 

 me as I ascend the steep stairs — an odor that awakens, like magic, a hun- 

 dred fancies, and recalls a host of memories long forgotten. Every stair 

 seems to creak a welcome, as when, on the rainy days of long ago, we 

 sought the cosy refuge to hear the patter on the roof, or to nestle in the 

 dark, obscure corners in our childish games. At the head of the stairs 

 rises the ancient chimney, cleft in twain at the foot, with the quaint little 

 cuddy between. Above me stretch the great beams of oak, like iron in 

 their hardness. Yonder is the queer old diamond window looking out 

 upon the village church, its panes half obscured by the dusty maze of 

 webs. To the left, in a shadowy corner, stands the antiquated wheel — a 

 relic of past generations. Long gray cobwebs festoon the rafters over- 

 head, and the low buzzing of a wasp betrays its mud nest in the gable 

 above. A sense of sadness steals over me as I sit gazing into this still 

 chamber. On every side are mementos of a happy past, and all, though 

 mute, speaking to me in a language whose power stirs the depths of my 

 soul. Wherever the eye may turn, it meets with a silent greeting from 

 an old friend, and the whole shrouded in a weird gloom that lends to 

 the most common object an air of melancholy mystery. And yet it is 

 only a garret. There are some, no doubt, for whom this word finds its 

 fitting synonyme in the dictionary, but there are others to whom it sings 

 a poem of infinite sweetness. 



Looking through the dingy window between the maple boughs, my 

 eye extends over lawn and shrubberies, three acres in extent — a little 

 park, overrun with paths in every direction, through ancient orchard and 

 embowered dells, while far beyond are glimpses of the wooded knolls, 

 the winding brook, and meadows dotted with waving willows, and farther 

 still the ample undulating farm. 



It is in such a place as this that I have sought recreation and change 

 of scene. My wife and I have run away from the city for a month or so. 

 A vacation we call it ; but to an artist such a thing is rarely known in its 

 ordinary sense, and often, indeed, it means an increase of labor rather than 

 a respite. My first week, however, I had consecrated to luxurious idle- 

 ness. Together we wandered through the old familiar rambles where as 

 boy and girl in earlier days we had been so oft together. Day after clay 

 found us in some new retreat. There were dark cool nooks by sheltered 



