MA y. 119 



The spring, I was told, was neither late nor early — a 

 fortunate circumstance always ; and the days spent upon 

 the lake were in all respects such as a rambler hopes for 

 in May — the month of preparation, of many promises. 

 The sun shone brightly as I turned my face homeward, 

 and my last glimpse was the flash of leaping waves — the 

 glint of a caldron of molten gold. 



My first visit to May's Landing was too brief and too 

 early, and a longing to return constantly possessed me. 

 With the scent of mountain woods and crystal lake still 

 in my nostrils, I returned, and it would be hard to realize 

 that from the one point to the other is but one hundred 

 and five miles as the crow flies. It was from pole to 

 equator in every essential feature. 



Of the village street I have already made proper men- 

 tion. It is a thoroughfare that other country towns 

 might study to advantage. In less than half a mile there 

 stand in or near the sidewalks more than a score of noble 

 oaks, some of them nine feet in girth ; while from mine 

 host's portico I counted one hundred and twenty-one of 

 these princely trees. These cast their cool shadows alike 

 over the churches and court-house, thus offering, after 

 their labors, equal comfort to wrangling lawyers and 

 opinionative priests. 



These oaks were in full leaf at this time, and I, too, a 

 stranger, found their cool shadows a luxury after long ex- 

 posure to the glare of the sun's rays where they fall upon 

 glittering sand. So intensely bright is the light that 

 snow-blindness might be produced. But why mention 

 such trivial matters ? One might as well complain that 

 water sparkles. In truth, these so-called barren sands 

 were a well-spring of delight. Acres of them were now 

 sparsely covered with golden Hudsonia — as marked a 

 bloom, and almost as beautiful as arbutus or pyxie, yet 



