THE VINTAGE OF THE LEAVES. 185 
cottage, I took my way. Ascending its steps, I 
stood within its lofty, granite-walled piazza, as 
romantic a spot, with its three arched openings 
facing westward, as a screened loggia overlook- 
ing fair Maggiore’s azure waves. High above 
and out of sight of the road, embowered in the 
forest, and with the very essence of the exquisite 
Chocorua landscape framed in its arches, this 
house might well attract me and draw me, even 
from the singing pines, to linger the rest of the 
forenoon above its terraces. Bees and locusts 
made music in the sunlight, flaming geraniums 
bloomed at the foot of the castle wall, the per¬ 
fume of sweet peas still in full flower hung 
lightly in the air, and upon one of the stone col¬ 
umns of the arches, morning-glories, unharmed 
by the several frosts which had wrought havoc 
with other tender plants, turned their filmy blos¬ 
soms towards the sun. Society with its present 
habits is to blame for the desertion of such a 
home as this on such a day as this, when Nature 
is at her loveliest. Why is it that all New 
England which has brains, money, or philan¬ 
thropy thinks the city the one proper sphere for 
life in all save a few weeks given grudgingly to 
rest? The cities are too large, too rich in hu¬ 
man forces. They are debasing our New Eng¬ 
land stock, draining away the best of our vital¬ 
ity in their too nervous life. If a third of their 
