work!" And after that, the strongest desire is for the companionship
of some one who really understands what he is trying to do.

His good angel must have led Edward MacDowell to Peterboro. I can
imagine no other setting so perfect for the last act of his life, with
its shifting scenes. Whatever else the great power back of the
universe may be, He is the Master Artist, and in the making of this
village of enchantment He seems to have gathered together all His most
beautiful materials and combined them with lavish hand. Quaint and
picturesque houses are sprinkled over the foot-hills of the Monadnock
Mountains. Green fields go down to meet clear streams of placid water,
where trailing vines and overhanging boughs make charming shadows. The
sun sparkles against great gray boulders, lichen-grown, and upon
yellow sand dunes. There are pines, larches, firs, spruces and all
their sturdy kinspeople, scattered freely that the eye may at any
season be gladdened by the sight of living green, and interspersed
with these are deciduous trees of every kind, to make a fantastic
tracery of bare branches against the wintry sky and furnish a series
of beautiful contrasts, from the earliest tender bud to the last sere
autumn leaf. And the ferns! Did the Great Artist have any left after
planting the fence-corners, roadsides and deep woods of Peterboro?
Overarch these features with a fair dome of fleece-scattered blue and
waft abroad throughout the place a succession of mountain breezes,
ozone charged, and you have a place to live and work and grow young
in.

MacDowell thought that the fine arts were supplemental, each of the
other, and wished to include them all in his scheme, so well-built
rustic studios, equipped to suit the needs of the occupant, are being
placed at intervals on advantageous sites in the woods, tree-screened