in' so that folks couldn't stand it, and they jest collared that
noise as Josiah would take a dog he couldn't stop barkin' by the
scruff of the neck and lock it up in the stable, jest so they took
that noise and rumblin' and snaked it way offen into the river in a
pipe or sunthin', so it keeps jest as still now up there as if it
wuzn't doin' a mite of work. Queer, hain't it? But to resoom.

It wuz indeed a fair seen to turn round when you wuz about half way up
the flower strewn declivity and look afar off over the wharf with its
gay crowd, over the boats gaily ridin' at anchor, and behold the
fairy islands risin' from the blue waves crested with castles, and
mansions and cottage ruffs, chimblys and towers all set in the green
of the surroundin' trees.

And, off fur as the eye could see, way through between and around, wuz
other beautiful islands and trees covered with spires and ruffs
peepin' out of the green. And way off, way off like white specks
growin' bigger every minute, wuz great ships floatin' in, and nearer
still would be anon or oftener majestic ships and steamers ploughin'
along through the blue waves, sailin' on and goin' right by and
mindin' their own bizness.

Well, when at last we did tear ourselves away from the environin' seen
and walk acrost the broad piazzas and into the two immense hotels, as
we looked around on the beauty of our surroundin's, nothin' but the
inward sense of religious duty seemed strong enough to draw us back to
Thousand Island Park, though that is good-lookin' too.

But the old meetin' house with its resistless cords, and the cast-iron
devotion of a pardner wound their strong links round me and I wuz more
than willin' to go back at night. Josiah didn't come with us, he'd
gone fishin' with another deacon he'd discovered at the Park.

Well, we santered through the bizness and residence streets and went
into the free library, a quaint pretty building full of good books
with a memorial to Holland meetin' you the first thing, put up there
by the hands of Gratitude. And we went into the old stun church, which
the dead master of Bonnie Castle thought so much on and did so much
for, and is full of memories of him. Whitfield thinks a sight of his
writings; he sez "they dignify the commonplace, and make common things
seem oncommon." Katrina, Arthur Bonniecastle, Miss Gilbert, Timothy
Titcomb the philosopher, all seemed to walk up and down with Whitfield
there.

And while there we took