pendants, and its shingles all pierced into decorative hearts and
rounds. Its likeness is not in Barber's book,--no, nor its visible form,
I believe, (it is many a year since I went that way,) on earth. It
became a constellation long ago,--being translated to the stars. Keep on
with good heart along the highway ridge, whence you can look down on the
solemn, close-set, pine forest, which hides from you the windings of the
river, and the beautiful lakelet, where the water-lilies float in
the summer. Go on down the valley, past the old tavern,--relic
of stage-coaching days, the square, three-story, deserted-looking
tavern,--up again a couple of miles or so, till the river has dwindled
to a brook and then to a marsh. Here is the place of our seeking. For
under the shade of one of those huge granite rocks over which the thin
soil of ---- County is sprinkled, and which here and there have shaken
off the superincumbent dust in indignation at the presumption of man in
attempting to farm them,--under that rock--of course I shall not tell
you which--you will find the White Arethusa, if you are born under a
lucky star.

A little later, the crimson lady-slipper loves to spring up in pine
clearings, around the base of the wood-piles which the cutters have
stacked in the winter to season. To one born by the salt water there is
an especial forest delight in the pine woods. For that best-loved sound
of the ceaseless fall of plunging seas upon the beach comes to him
there. Many a time I have walked from Harvard's leafy shades and
cheerful halls out to the quiet of the Botanic Garden for the sake of
hearing the wind in the pine tree-tops. Shut your eyes, and the inward
vision sees once more the long line of sandy and shingly beaches, the
green curving-up of the surges tipped with dazzling foam,--sees the
motionless and blackened timbers of the wreck on the shore, the white
wings dipping and turning along the combing tops of the waves racing in