men trusted God as you do your papa, how little business there'd
be for preachers to do."

The night was a perfect one. The pure fresh air, the perfume of
the flowers, the music of the insect choir in the trees and
shrubbery--the very season itself seemed to forbid my reading
philosophy, so I laid Fiske aside, delighted myself with a few
rare bits from Paul Hayne's new volume of poems, read a few
chapters of "One Summer," and finally sauntered off to bed. My
nephews were slumbering sweetly; it seemed impossible that the
pure, exquisite, angelic faces before me belonged to my tormentors
of a few hours before. As I lay on my couch I could see the dark
shadow and rugged crest of the mountain; above it, the silver
stars against the blue, and below it the rival lights of the
fireflies against the dark background formed by the mountain
itself. No rumbling of wheels tormented me, nor any of the
thousand noises that fill city air with the spirit of unrest, and
I fell into a wonder almost indignant that sensible, comfortable,
loving beings could live in horrible New York, while such
delightful rural homes were so near at hand. Then Alice Mayton
came into my mind, and then a customer; later, stars and
trademarks, and bouquets, and dirty nephews, and fireflies and bad
accounts, and railway tickets, and candy and Herbert Spencer,
mixed themselves confusingly in my mind. Then a vision of a proud
angel, in the most fashionable attire and a modern carriage, came
and banished them all by its perfect radiance, and I was sinking
in the most blissful unconsciousness--

"Ah--h--h--h--h--h--oo--oo--oo--oo--ee--ee--ee--"