A  Trip  Through  Long  Island  Sound. 
OF  course  nearly  everybody  has  been  to  New  York, 
but  there  may  be  some  invalids  in  the  fringes  of 
our  country  who  do  not  know  all  about  it  and  there 
are  also  several  ways  of  getting  there.  We  will  go,  if 
you  please,  by  a  Sound  steamer  from  a  modest  port  on 
the  Connecticut  coast.  The  pier — which  we  always 
call  a  dock — appears  a  great  barn-like  structure  into 
whose  cool  shadows  we  escape  from  the  horse-car  and 
the  dirty,  black  street,  feeling  ourselves  very  fragile 
and  of  small  account  beside  the  great,  stamping  dray 
horses  under  whose  very  noses  we  dodge,  amazed  at 
the  dextrous  backing  and  manoeuvering  of  long-tailed 
drays  and  huge,  red  furniture  vans.  Merchandise  is 
evidently  first  here  and  we,  the  passengers,  second. 
It  is  but  a  few  steps  to  where  our  steamer  lies,  drawn 
up  to  a  side  door  as  it  were,  and  across  the  plank  we 
hasten,  not  to  impede  the  way  of  the  hurrying,  per¬ 
spiring  stevedores.  Once  upon  the  upper  deck,  we  look 
down  upon  the  busy  scene  and  wonder  did  ever  the 
brawny  laborer  work  any  where  else  at  »uch  a  rate  of 
speed.  Heavy  boxes,  barrels  and  trunks  come  scut¬ 
tling  on  board,  and  away  for  another  load  at  a  dog  trot 
go  the  rough,  red-shirted  fellows,  with  never  a  pause 
to  draw  a  long  breath  or  to  relax  strained  muscles. 
The  scene  upon  shore  and  along  the  water  front  is 
quite  too  novel  and  interesting  for  me  to  follow  the 
example  of  many  of  the  passengers  and  get  out  my 
book  or  crochet  work,  or  retire  to  the  easy  chairs  and 
divans  within,  so  if  you  wish  to  appear  very  traveled 
or  aristocratically  bored,  pray  leave  me  here  in  my 
camp-chair  by  the  railing,  for  I  am  bound  to  see  every 
dingy  old  sloop  and  schooner,  venturesome  row-boat 
and  gay  sharpie,  and  to  watch  the  green  waters  lick¬ 
ing  the  black  piles,  smell  the  salt  breeze,  and  to  have 
a  look  at  everything  afloat  and  ashore. 
How  prettily  the  green  meadows  slope  down  to  the 
harbor  on  one  side  and  how  busy  and  dirty  and  vaga- 
bondish  is  the  city’s  hem  draggling  itself  in  the  tide 
on  the  other,  are  apparent  as  we  slip  the  great  hawsers 
and  churn  our  way  out  into  the  bay.  Each  dingy  old 
float  and  canal  boat  has  a  fascination  for  inland-bred 
eyes  ;  and  when  there  is  a  family  on  board  with  chil¬ 
dren  playing  about,  the  family  wash  fluttering  from  a 
line  and  a  small  dog  ready  to  put  his  fore  paws  upon 
the  gunwale  and  bark  a  salute  as  we  pass,  one  immed¬ 
iately  longs  to  become  a  boarder  in  that  family  and 
float  from  port  to  port  idly  obedient  to  the  will  of  the 
steaming  tug  boat  far  ahead. 
Presently  the  city  is  but  a  spread  of  roofs  and 
steeples  with  clouds  of  brooding  smoke  where  the  tall 
chimneys  cluster  thickest.  The  breeze  freshens,  the 
landscape  widens  back,  a  picture  of  green  fields, 
woods,  hills  and  scattered  farmhouses  beyond  the 
pavilions  and  summer  cottages  lining  the  shore.  Here 
is  a  cluster  of  green  tumuli,  relics  of  the  barbarity  of 
war,  breaking  the  shore  line,  a  mere  antique  now, 
outgrown  by  modern  destructives  and  forever  useless, 
let  us  hope.  Put  cruel  yellow  cliffs  rising  there  from 
the  lapping  tide  ;  fishermen  plying  their  sport  from 
the  angular  rocks  of  the  breakwater  ;  gallant  three- 
masted  schooners  riding  majestically  before  the  wind, 
and  the  elegant  steam  yacht  that  passed  so  near  we 
could  admire  her  shining  brass,  polished  wood  finish¬ 
ings  and  the  exquisite  neatness  of  every  appointment, 
crew  in  midshipman’s  caps  and  sailor  trim,  all  a  dream 
of  water-craft  luxury — all  are  left  behind  and  soon 
there  are  only  the  dancing,  tossing  waves  dazzling  in 
the  sunlight  and  I  am  ready  to  share  your  book  and 
rest  my  eyes  in  the  cool  shelter  of  the  saloon. 
Now,  if  you  are  countryfied  enough  to  be  interested 
in  everybody,  is  the  time  to  enjoy  our  fellow-passen¬ 
gers.  Here  are  three,  mother,  daughter  and  friend 
evidently,  so  quietly  dressed,  so  altogether  reserved 
and  well-bred  that  we  know  at  once  from  what 
university  town  they  proudly  sign  themselves.  Put 
well-bred  people  are  in  the  minority,  for  the  steamer 
is  not  much  favored  by  the  polite  world,  who  prefer 
the  rush  and  dust  and  clatter  of  the  express  train, 
maybe  because  it  costs  more.  I  think  the  railroad  far 
less  interesting,  but  confess  that  when  winter  cold  or 
stress  of  time  compels  that  sort  of  journey,  I  find  my¬ 
self  boarding  the  New  York  train  with  the  air  every 
one  assumes,  head  in  air,  eyes  straight  ahead,  mind 
apparently  set  on  some  important  engagement  and 
subdued  determination  to  waste  time  and  attention  on 
no  one,  like  a  true  New-Yorker.  Put  study  that 
foreign-born  family  and  learn  to  make  the  most  of 
life.  The  baby  has  had  its  fourth  banana  and  the 
twins  have  munched  cookies  every  moment  they  were 
not  eating  candy  and  sandwiches  !  Never  mind,  their 
stomachs  are  guaranteed  for  this  generation  at  least, 
thanks  to  the  plain  fare  of  the  older  country.  How 
can  one  but  envy  such  digestion  and  such  nerves  ? 
Put  at  last  you  are  tired  of  reading  aloud,  and  I 
think  I  have  caught  a  nap,  so  let  us  go  forward  and 
see  how  our  steamer  fares  on  her  way.  Land,  although 
never  entirely  out  of  sight,  sometimes  retreats  to  a 
gray-blue  line  along  our  right,  and  Long  Island  shows 
us  little  of  itself  till  we  near  the  “  East  River.”  It  is  a 
passage  strong  of  current  and  treacherous  to  one  not  at 
home  in  its  seething  waters,  where  ebb  and  flood  tide 
pour  with  tremendous  momentum  through  its  rock-ob¬ 
structed  channel.  Yet  a  busier  waterway  it  would  be 
hard  to  find.  Put  we  are  not  in  its  turmoil  till  we 
have  passed  that  queerest  of  dwelling  places,  a  light¬ 
house  set  on  a  rock  with  never  a  tree  or  spear  of  grass, 
and  always  the  waves  washing  against  its  masonry. 
Long  Island  has  drawn  nearer,  looking  rather  deso¬ 
late,  with  wide  meadows ;  but  farther  down  are  pleas¬ 
ant  villas  and  gentlemen’s  summer  homes. 
Put  the  scene  becomes  too  much  for  one  pair  of  eyes, 
and  we  will  make  sure  of  a  good  look  at  Plackwell’s 
Island  as  we  pass  it  close  upon  our  left.  Its  great 
gray  stone  buildings,  barred  of  window  and  bleak 
of  aspect,  are  well  suited  to  prison  and  workhouse 
uses ;  but  our  hearts  contract  with  pain,  not  so  much 
at  the  sight  of  the  gang  of  male  convicts  in  striped 
garments  at  work  repairing  the  sea  wall  broken  down 
by  the  tide,  but  to  see  women,  a  poor,  forlorn  proces¬ 
sion,  in  plaid  shawls  and  red  and  blue  hoods,  marching 
in  single  file  for  an  airing  outside  the  stone  walls  of 
almshouse  or  hospital.  Since,  in  this  present  stage  of 
civilization,  there  will  be  paupers  and  wrong-doers,  it 
is  comforting  to  see  a  place  for  their  incarceration  no 
more  dreadful  than  this  smiling  isle  with  its  trim 
water  front,  greenest  of  turf  and  most  flourishing  of 
gardens  ;  and  one  falls  to  wishing  that  the  poor  crea¬ 
tures  breathing  this  fresh  sea  air  might  get  a  breath  of 
something  purer  and  sweeter  into  their  hearts. 
Every  one  is  on  deck  now,  all  our  flags  and  pennants 
flap  gaily  in  the  breeze,  every  man  of  the  working 
crew  is  at  his  post.  The  narrow  channel  is  thick  with 
water  craft.  Great  ferry  boats  cross  ahead  and  at 
stern  with  seeming  recklessness ;  steam  tugs  snort 
and  blow  and  puff  forward,  trailing  their  great,  clumsy 
charges ;  slow-moving  sailing  vessels  here  and  there 
still  trust  to  their  sails ;  even  frail  little  rowboats 
make  their  way  about,  heedless  of  the  tossing  they  get 
in  the  wake  of  screw  and  paddlewheel.  A  hoarse 
salute  from  a  northward-bound  steamer  and  answer¬ 
ing  blasts  from  our  own  whistles  announce  our  meet¬ 
ing  with  a  sister  boat  of  the  same  line  just  out  from 
the  pier  we  shall  soon  make. 
Long  Island  City  and  Prooklyn,  all  one  huge  metrop¬ 
olis,  so  far  as  our  eyes  can  detect,  crowd  to  the  water’s 
edge  on  the  left.  Familiar  names  on  great  factories 
and  warehouses  begin  to  catch  the  eye.  Here  are  the 
piers  of  the  Long  Island  Railroad,  and  huge  floats,  mar¬ 
velously  upbearing  many  freight  cars,  are  going  and 
coming  on  their  way  around  the  Pattery  to  the  New 
Jersey  shore.  Prooklyn  Pridge,  like  a  huge  snake, 
cuts  across  the  sky.  This  is  the  region  of  great  freight¬ 
ing  lines,  gaunt,  weather-beaten  hulls  and  curious 
foreign  crafts  ;  as  the  Hudson  on  the  opposite  side  of 
New  York — “the  North  River” — is  the  habitat  of 
those  wonderful  ocean  steamships  and  of  the  Coney 
Island  and  other  excursion  boats.  We  can  see  the 
teams  crossing  Prooklyn  Pridge :  now  we  are  under 
it.  We  follow  our  fellow  passengers  down  stairs,  de¬ 
liver  tickets,  rescue  our  impedimenta  checked  at  the 
baggage  room,  peer  out  to  wonder  if  our  big  boat  can 
ever  fit  its  nose  into  that  narrow  berth  without  a  bump, 
then  realize  that  the  feat  is  already  accomplished,  the 
plank  is  drawn,  and  we  are  in  New  York. 
PRUDENCE  PRIMROSE. 
Health  and  Pleasure  in  the  White  Mts. 
[This  breath  from  the  summer  hills  comes  from  one  who  sought 
health  among  their  strengthening  bieezes.  That  it  Is  from  a  private 
letter  adds  to  its  charm.— Eds.] 
O  see  the  mountains  on  a  clear  day,  with  their 
beautiful  covering  of  trees,  one  would  think  it 
was  not  possible  for  them  to  look  more  grand  and 
majestic  ;  yet  look  at  them  during  a  rain  storm  and 
see  the  misty  haze  changing  in  density  as  the  storm 
moves  along,  and  they  look  more  wonderful ;  yet,  once 
more,  look  at  them  when  the  soft,  white  clouds  are 
lovingly  caressing  them,  and  words  cannot  tell  of  the 
beauty  of  the  mountains  then  ;  and,  last  of  all,  some 
sweet,  still  summer  evening,  watch  the  sunset  glow 
die  out  of  the  sky,  and  then  turn  your  gaze  to  the 
glory  of  the  hills,  and  see  the  deepening  blue  change 
to  purple,  and  the  purple  grow  hazy,  and  more  than 
ever  are  your  thoughts  lifted  to  Him  whose  love  pass- 
eth  knowledge,  and  who  is  round  about  His  saints  as 
the  mountains  are  round  about  Jerusalem. 
I  saw  in  Franconia  the  beginning  of  a  fine  picture 
by  an  artist  of  renown — Gallison.  He  named  his  pic¬ 
ture  “  Paddy’s  Row.”  It  was  a  row  of  four  little  de¬ 
tached  houses  near  the  busiest  part  of  the  quiet  village 
of  Franconia  ;  at  the  head  of  the  street  is  an  old  pic¬ 
turesque  stone  tower,  an  old  hotel  and  one  or  two 
other  old  buildings.  In  the  background  looms  up  the 
“Goodnow  Hill.”  The  up-hill  road  and  the  luxuriant 
growth  of  grass  and  wild  flowers  make  an  effective 
foreground.  I  heard  from  a  lady  artist  who  saw  the 
picture  when  it  was  finished  that  it  was  very  fine.  You 
will  rightly  judge  that  I  had  many  opportunities  to 
talk  of  art  and  to  see  many  lovely  pictures,  and  I  en¬ 
joyed  both  pleasures  thoroughly.  I  was  quite  weak 
some  of  the  time,  and,  when  unable  to  walk  much,  I 
would  find  great  pleasure  in  sketching.  I  took 
about  18  sketches,  some  of  flowers,  some  of  the  moun¬ 
tains,  one  river  scene  and  some  figures.  I  enjoyed 
drawing  ever  so  much,  and  my  sketch  book  is  very 
dear  to  me. 
We  found  among  the  many  lovely  wild  flowers,  the 
pink  mountain  clover.  Ho  you  know  it  ?  It  grows 
like  the  red  clover,  while  its  flowers  are  shaped  like 
the  white  clover  and  are  a  delicate  pink.  It  is  very 
sweet  smelling.  We  were  especially  fond  of  it  for 
many  reasons.  A  dear  little  baby  girl  found  a  knot  of 
it  one  day  and  stooping  down,  held  her  tiny  hands 
over  the  dainty  pink  blossoms  the  while  she  said  in 
her  cooing,  gentle  way,  “  Very  pitty,  vewy,  vewy 
pitty.”  After  that  we  loved  it  for  Rita’s  sake.  We 
used  to  wear  sprays  of  it  when  we  could  find  them — 
for  they  were  not  plentiful — and  one  young  lady  asked 
me  if  I  knew  a  couplet  about  clover.  I  immediately 
told  her  the  sweet  one  you  showed  me  : 
Just  to  bring  back 
The  days  that  are  over, 
The  breath  of  the  morning, 
The  scent  of  the  clover. 
She  was  delighted,  and  we  each  wrote  those  four 
lines  in  the  other’s  birch  bark  album  as  a  souvenir  of 
the  summer  ;  so,  ycu  see,  your  little  verse  gave  much 
pleasure.  My  cousins  were  int?rested  in  botany  and 
did  a  good  deal  of  studying  in  that  line.  They  found 
over  100  flowers  they  had  not  met  before.  Among 
them  about  15  varieties  of  golden  rod,  one  on  the 
very  summit  of  Mount  Lafayette — 5,500  feet  above  sea 
level — one  half  way  down  and  the  others  around  Fran¬ 
conia  and  the  neighboring  hills.  The  bi-color,  white 
and  yellow  looks  very  like  mignonette.  The  purple 
and  white  asters  grow  in  great  profusion  ;  the  “  fire 
weed”  and  clematis  also  ;  the  “Rutland  Beauty”  and 
various  small  flowers  abound  ;  the  tiny  bunch  berry 
blossom  grows  near  the  rivers  ;  there  are  quantities  of 
“white  Indian  pipes” ^n  the  woods;  various  kinds  of 
spiraea  adorn  the  roadsides,  and  the  boys  found  four 
orchids — the  adder’s  mouth,  the  ladies’  tress,  the  rattle¬ 
snake  plantain  and  the  purple-fringed  orchid.  How 
lovely  the  clematis  is  in  bud,  in  flower  and  in  fruit ! 
I  brought  home  many  specimens  of  flowers  from  var¬ 
ious  points  of  interest.  The  yarrow  grew  in  abundance 
on  the  banks  of  the  Gale  River,  and  its  pure  white, 
with  the  purple  of  the  asters  and  the  gold  of  the 
golden  rod,  formed  beautiful  decorations  along  both 
banks  of  that  pretty,  singing  stream.  But  I  have 
rambled  on  and  on  and  perhaps  you  are  tired  with  the 
long  walk  through  scenes  that  are  very  bright  to  me. 
Words  fail  to  express  the  peace  and  joy  of  my  sum¬ 
mer.  Such  beauty  all  about,  such  fellowship  with 
dear  ones,  such  peace  that  passeth  all  knowledge, 
keeping  mind  and  heart,  cannot  be  put  into  words. 
And  I  am  really  quite  well,  only  I  get  tired  easily, 
as  my  strength  is  not  fully  established. 
FLORA  KIRKLAND. 
*  *  * 
Pure  Salad  Oils. — A  Providence  firm  is  putting  up 
what  is  known  as  Providence  Pure  Salad  Oil.  It  is  of 
an  almost  pure  amber  color,  with  a  very  slight  green¬ 
ish  tinge.  Its  claim  is  that  it  is  honest  in  proclaiming 
itself  made  from  cotton  seed,  and  placing  its  price 
accordingly,  whereas  many  of  the  “pure  olive  oils,” 
at  double  its  price,  are  neither  more  nor  less  than  the 
cotton  seed  product  or  some  of  its  mixtures.  An 
analyst  says :  “  To  day  two-thirds  of  the  olive  oil  sold 
in  the  markets  of  the  world  is  born  on  the  cotton  fields 
of  the  Southern  States.”  If  this  be  so,  we  may  well 
buy  the  acknowledged  cotton-seed  oil  at  the  half  rates. 
The  Summer  Fire. — To  economize  in  fuel,  have  the 
kindling  split  fine,  and  cover  with  just  one  layer  of 
fine  coal.  After  this  has  well  caught,  put  on  suffic¬ 
ient  for  the  meal.  The  blaze  and  heat  from  the  kindl¬ 
ings  will  much  sooner  take  hold  of  a  moderate  quantity 
of  small  coal,  than  of  a  lot  of  large  pieces.  Hurry  and 
have  things  ready  to  be  put  on  just  when  the  heat  is 
greatest,  or  a  little  before.  Beans,  which  require  a 
long  time  to  cook  should  be  gathered  and  put  on  the 
Stove  while  cooking  breakfast  for  use  at  dinner,  they 
can  be  “finished”  on  a  gasoline  stove,  or  on  the  usual 
dinner  fire.  In  winter  they  are  greatly  helped  by 
soaking  in  water  overnight.  mrs.  w.  s. 
