I walk under these cathedral trees, and like a dream comes to me the memory of a bright summer day, when a romping school-girl in Pittsfield, near by, I came to this very "Stockbridge," to a house a few rods from my present abode, where a sister's welcome awaited me. And to-day her trees, her vines, her flowers, give out perfume, and shade, and bloom, all the same as if she were gliding in and out beneath them, instead of sleeping, deaf, dumb, and blind, forever to all their beauty.

You, too, must have known those whom you "could not make dead!" Joyous, beaming creatures, with steps of air, floating over—not walking on—the earth; touching everything with brightness, like the bright-winged birds, which send forth a trill that takes your soul along with it, as they dart, like a gleam of sunshine, through the air. You, too, have stood over their coffin; but you only remember the sunny living face. You have touched the cold hand; but you feel only, through long years of separation, the warm life clasp. And so my sister was still there, amid her flowers and trees; and when the present kindly proprietor showed me about the house and grounds, it was she to whom I listened; it was she, not him, whom I followed, through the well-remembered paths.

And now tread softly, lest you invade the sanctity of yonder Indian burying-ground, where rest the bones of countless chiefs, whose descendants make annual pilgrimage to the spot, unmarked, save by the wild flowers and waving grass. These Indians went by the name of "The Stockbridge Indians;" and when any of their tribe settled afterward in any other place, they always insisted on naming it "Stockbridge." Jonathan Edwards, who was driven from his church in Northampton on a point of doctrine, was the minister employed by the Government to Christianize them; and, from all accounts, a hard job he found it. "The poor Indian" must have passed into his "hunting-ground," for I meet him nowhere in my twilight walks through his earthly haunts; nor does the ghost of a single chief cause my hair to stand on end as I pass, by moonlight, their lonely burying-ground.

Morning in the Village.—Softly, slowly, the white mist-veil is drawn back from the cool, green mountains. Now a little bird, raising its bright head from its nest, sends forth such a welcome to the fragrant new-born day, that prayer of mine seems superfluous and tame beside it. Follows another, like a well-trained voice in a choir, till at last the swelling chorus is complete, and nature's matins have fairly begun.

How the dew sparkles and trembles on the nodding blades of grass! How lazily the cows loiter on their shady path to the cool pastures! How fair look the white daisies and red clover, fresh from their dewy baths! How still hang the leaves on the trees, as if to enjoy the too evanescent coolness! Now some little child's sweet voice is heard, rivaling the birds. There she stands in the doorway, prettier with her uncombed locks and bare little pink feet peeping from beneath her loose, white night-dress, than any touch of art could make her. And now her father, brown and strong, with hoe and rake in hand, goes forth to his day's work, stopping as he goes to rest his toil-hardened hand lightly on that little head as he passes it. And whether the hot noonday sun or the swift lightning-stroke shall paralyze it, that soft touch, through the slow-coming years, shall be her talisman. And now the village is fairly astir. None are left in their beds—none are idle, save the old or the sick. The smoke of the rushing cars curls out from yonder willows that fringe the river's brink, then disappears, as, with a parting screech and puff, the train rushes forth on its errand of life or—death! Now groups gather round the "store" and "post-office." Ladies who have travelled thither, with the city on their backs, are sauntering under the trees, so occupied with taking care of their dry-goods that they have neither eyes nor ears for the beauty and harmony around them. What right have such women to perpetuate themselves? How dare they be mothers? I don't know.

Noon in the Village.—How white and hot lies the sun on the dusty road! The slow, patient oxen are scarce discernible through the cloud they raise with their huge feet. Their driver has pushed his coarse straw hat aside, and is mopping his brown face zealously as he mercifully gives them breath under the shadow of that grand oak-tree. The voices of the children and the birds are hushed this garish noon. Each have taken refuge in their nests, to doze the laggard hours away. The fine city ladies are in loose dresses, deciding whether brown, or green, or blue shall make us tear each other's eyes out with envy at dinner. Their husbands lie under the trees in white raiment, insulting high Heaven with pipes and segars. Africa is flying around in the dining-hall, regardless of the thermometer, counting spoons, knives, and noses. Babies afflicted with last night's mosquito-bites howl at their nurses with distorted faces, while their bigger brothers and sisters screech for "a drink of wutter." Mammas ejaculate "Merciful heavens!" and keep on surveying their back-hair with the aid of two looking-glasses. Wonderful beings are women; but don't fear I shall turn state's-evidence! Not till I can turn female Robinson Crusoe, with my "man-Friday," to back me in case of onslaught from the savages.

Evening in the Village.—Little Bobby stands on the piazza, dressed in his fifth white robe and sash, since the amorous sun kissed the tears from nature's face, this blessed morning. Poor Bobby! His temper isn't improved by it; and as to his nurse, were it not for her "wages," she would like to fricassee Bobby. Poor wretch! but just wait till Bobby and his mamma are safe in bed. Wont she enjoy her freedom in a pink neck-ribbon, flirting by moonlight with Tom—the head-waiter? So would you. I don't blame her. You and I haven't the monopoly of moonlight; although, 'tis true, they might phrase their vows more grammatically; and if they could make up their minds not to kiss so loud under my window, I should sleep better of nights. As the sun declines, how lovely lie the purple shadows on the grateful coolness. Ladies are driving past, smiling, and prodigal of sweet words to the husbands of—their friends! Their husbands are similarly occupied. "Fair exchange is no robbery," saith the proverb. Smith used to like black hair, when he married his Belinda; but since he saw Jones' wife with her blonde locks tied with a blue ribbon he is a penitent man. Belinda don't care—Mrs. Jones' husband has "such a way with him!" On they dash!—it's none of my business, as Mischief remarks, when she has winked and blinked a reputation down. I don't pretend to be more charitable than my betters. Now those of us who believe that hoofs should not always be a substitute for human feet, stroll forth for our evening walk. We are not afraid of dew or dust, and we get miles away before we remember that we have to return. We sit on the fences, and dangle our boots, and watch the mountain shadows and the soft white mist creeping over the valleys, and we listen to the whip-poor-will. Or we boldly walk up the avenue, under the dense shade of the trees, to the lovely lawn in front of that big house, and admire the gardener's skill as displayed in the vivid patches of bloom nestled in the grass. Or we cross the meadow—to the tell-tale willows, behind which the river hides, and listen to its peaceful flow; and say for the thousandth time, that we will own "a place" in the country; but, nevertheless, it is ten to one, that next summer will find us staring at the "place" of somebody else, and allowing him the privilege of keeping it in order for us, and settling the bills for the same. Alas! that the tools with which scribblers work can be sharpened and kept from rusting only on that grindstone—the city.