The Story of a Summer / Or, Journal Leaves from Chappaqua

s Letter-Moonlight on Croton Lake-Mo

ne

nt the morning at the piano, playing Mendelssohn's d

a flying visit to the city, accompanied by our friends, Colonel Rogers and Mr. Hows, the artist, who is a neighbor of ours in our rural part of t

tic eyes. We walked first to the flower-garden, where we gathered flowers to dress the table for dinner, and then visited the p

rmer dread of malaria. Ida held the ribbons on this occasion, and as I was not o

APP

come. I wish you had not let your tiresome old dressmaker deprive

avaliers on this occasion. As our light carriage only has room for four, I drove the ponies myself. We started just about sundown, and the pleasant coolness of evening came on while there was still daylight enough to l

his part of Westchester, and when people talk of the beauties of the Adirondacks, I listen with the silent convic

omised to do. At last the lake was reached, and turning to the right, we were soon skimming along at a great pace on the wide boulevard that skirts the water as far along as Pine's Bridge. There we put up our ponies at a hotel with an impossible and unpronounceable Indian

; so Marguerite, who is as sweet and unaffected about her singing as if she hadn't the most exquisite soprano ever heard off the stage, consented without any tireso

rifting along in the sombre twilight, better than by quoting Buch

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ng rays upon Nancy's back (for such is the unromantic name of the horse that oftenest has the honor of bearing me when we ride). No one seemed inclined to drive, so Lady Alice and the Duchess, that had been for some time impatiently stamping, and arching their pretty necks, evidently impatient to

of his parents (our eminent historian Richard Hildreth, and his gifted artist wife), he became mamma's ward, and was our constant companion in Italy and France. Arthur has come on from Cambridge,

r, limiting the reading to any one person, and Arthur often relieves us of that duty. I enjoy his reading very much, especially when one of Plato's "Dialogues" is the lesson of the day, for into them he throws so much enthus

t say that I find him very refreshing as yet; still I

following their arguments. These "Dialogues" remind me of a fugue in musical composition; only melody is wanting to make the resemblance perfect, for here, as in the "Well-tempered Harpsic