High In The Leafy Bank, Surrounded Commonly By A Small Patch Of Corn And Beans, Squashes And Melons, With Sometimes A Graceful Hop-Yard On One Side, And Some Running Vine Over The Windows, They Appeared Like Beehives Set To Gather Honey For A Summer.

I have not read of any Arcadian life which surpasses the actual luxury and serenity of these New England dwellings.

For the outward gilding, at least, the age is golden enough. As you approach the sunny doorway, awakening the echoes by your steps, still no sound from these barracks of repose, and you fear that the gentlest knock may seem rude to the Oriental dreamers. The door is opened, perchance, by some Yankee-Hindoo woman, whose small-voiced but sincere hospitality, out of the bottomless depths of a quiet nature, has travelled quite round to the opposite side, and fears only to obtrude its kindness. You step over the white-scoured floor to the bright "dresser" lightly, as if afraid to disturb the devotions of the household, - for Oriental dynasties appear to have passed away since the dinner-table was last spread here, - and thence to the frequented curb, where you see your long-forgotten, unshaven face at the bottom, in juxtaposition with new-made butter and the trout in the well. "Perhaps you would like some molasses and ginger," suggests the faint noon voice. Sometimes there sits the brother who follows the sea, their representative man; who knows only how far it is to the nearest port, no more distances, all the rest is sea and distant capes, - patting the dog, or dandling the kitten in arms that were stretched by the cable and the oar, pulling against Boreas or the trade-winds.

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