Atlantic Monthly, Vol. XII. September, 1863, No. LXXI.

intrusted to the care and courtesy of the driver, and surrounding him like a rampar

a letter, which our driver pretended to drop half a dozen times, on purpose to tantalize her. It was pretty to see her

e still! give

oollen petticoat, and white short-gown, that "half hid and half revealed" the unconstrained grace of healthy mountain-nature;

id I, answering the twinkle of

pity, too, such a real clever girl as that is! She a'n't so dreadful brigh

match f

nk all day hard and never show it, without it is bein' cross, maybe, and paler 'n common. Now I say,-and I a'n't no 'reformed inebriate,' nor Father Matthew sort

t to tell her.

no good to talk. For that matter, talkin' never did do much, I'm thinkin',-exceptin' preachin'.

ver Walpole hills, and the specks in the distance where the early farmers were ploughing and sowing. The breaking day, the bursting spring, and all the outwa

anging of raiment among the babies, for chatting in the bar-room, for the interchange of news among the men, and even for glasses of milk-punch. Tell

happens, run off the track, smashed up, or otherwise suddenly and summarily disposed of, have little notion of our successive and amusing accidents, and of how they d

ever damaged,-why falling into ditches at night wasn't an unhealthy process,-and, above all, how the driver's stock of leathern straps, strings, and nails should always prove exhaustless, and be always so wonderfully adapted to every emergency,-that was a wonder, and is a wonder still to me. No amount of mechanical skill, though the Yankee has made machines that almost think, and altogether do, for him, has superseded or exhausted his natural tact, expediency, and invention. W

ke to know who would stop anywhere now to see anything! One might as well be put into a gun and fired off to New York as go there now by

e as was a journey. You saw people, you made their acquaintance,

most level, till you pronounce the whole way flat, and are glad to shut your eyes and listen to

to build it, seeing no lack in the road or field,-from the time we enter on trim, well-kept Massachusetts, the panorama shifts with ever new interest and beauty. We leave the pretentious brick houses, or the glaring white ones, which mark the uncultivated taste of the

of Indian struggle, or wandering regicides, hiding their noble heads in caves, or bursting out like white spirits to lead and avenge. The air

spring into the exultant richness of the winged butterfly,-into whi

ing in the style of to-day. Beyond the casual acquaintances I made when rain compelled me to indoor chat, I saw nobody who interested me until we reached Springfield. There, at the top of the first short hill outside the town, after looking back on the white houses standing in the river

resh from the broad chest, showed us a trave

the coach, and made room for himself j

Madam All right. Just room

day,"

king for the last fifteen miles,

and tossed back his curling brown hair. He had a gray travelling-dress, such as everybody wears now, but which was then a novelty; and something in