You love the smell of the sweet-fern and the bayberry-leaves, I don't doubt; but I hardly think that the last bewitches you with young memories as it does me.

For the same reason I come back to damask roses, after having raised a good many of the rarer varieties.

I like to go to operas and concerts, but there are queer little old homely sounds that are better than music to me.

However, I suppose it's foolish to tell such things.
-- It is pleasant to be foolish at the right time,--said the divinity-student;--saying it, however, in one of the dead languages, which I think are unpopular for summer-reading, and therefore do not bear quotation as such.
Well, now,--said I,--suppose a good, clean, wholesome-looking countryman's cart stops opposite my door .-- Do I want any huckleberries ?--If I do not, there are those that do.

Thereupon my soft-voiced handmaid bears out a large tin pan, and then the wholesome countryman, heaping the peck-measure, spreads his broad hands around its lower arc to confine the wild and frisky berries, and so they run nimbly along the narrowing channel until they tumble rustling down in a black cascade and tinkle on the resounding metal beneath .-- I won't say that this rushing huckleberry hail-storm has not more music for me than the "Anvil Chorus." -- I wonder how my great trees are coming on this summer.
-- Where are your great trees, Sir ?--said the divinity-student.
Oh, all round about New England.