there must have been a fashion once, in Deephaven, of working these
scarfs, and I should not be surprised to find that it was many years
before the fashion of working samplers came about. Our friends always
wore black mitts on warm Sundays, and many of them carried neat little
bags of various designs on their arms, containing a precisely folded
pocket-handkerchief, and a frugal lunch of caraway seeds or red and
white peppermints. I should like you to see, with your own eyes, Widow
Ware and Miss Exper'ence Hull, two old sisters whose personal appearance
we delighted in, and whom we saw feebly approaching down the street this
first Sunday morning under the shadow of the two last members of an
otherwise extinct race of parasols.

There were two or three old men who sat near us. They were
sailors,--there is something unmistakable about a sailor,--and they had
a curiously ancient, uncanny look, as if they might have belonged to the
crew of the Mayflower, or even have cruised about with the Northmen in
the times of Harold Harfager and his comrades. They had been blown about
by so many winter winds, so browned by summer suns, and wet by salt
spray, that their hands and faces looked like leather, with a few deep
folds instead of wrinkles. They had pale blue eyes, very keen and quick;
their hair looked like the fine sea-weed which clings to the kelp-roots
and mussel-shells in little locks. These friends of ours sat solemnly at
the heads of their pews and looked unflinchingly at the minister, when
they were not dozing, and they sang with voices like the howl of the
wind, with an occasional deep note or two.

Have you never seen faces that seemed old-fashioned? Many of the people
in Deephaven church looked as if they must be--if not supernaturally
old--exact copies of their remote ancestors. I wonder if it is not
possible that the features and expression may be almost perfectly