window, in reckless waste. And this night was such a one.

The keen air, and the entrancing beauty about me, seemed to run in a
subtle, fascinating torrent through my veins, and lend me wings. I felt
as though I were buoyed up by magic hands; I hardly think I set foot on
ground the whole way, and yet I must, for I was conscious of a crisp
crackle of the snow at every step.

Oh, is there any sound just like it! Could our poor invalids but pitch
their nostrums over the wall, and take this tonic instead!

Some friends of mine moved a while ago and drove their family stake in a
spot far off from here. They are continually writing me of a region of
perpetual sunshine and summer. I thought of them on this glorious night,
and pitied them from the depths of my heart, as I often have, indeed,
since they went out there. Theirs is the place for the extremely
indigent, no doubt, but for any one who can command a dollar or so for
fuel, this--this is the land of delight.

I was at no loss as to direction; our suburb was beautiful throughout,
especially all along by the lake, but there was one place in particular,
where art and nature had joined hands, with a result indescribable.
Toward these grounds I hastened, on this particular night.

Oh, the glory of that moon! the glory of the lake! an undulating sea of
waves, each crested with a feather, as soft, as snowy in the moonlight,
as the tinier ones that hung upon the trees.

I ran down the winding avenue--the white fog still lingered in the deep
places, but above, all was clear and glorious. Erelong I entered the
Dunham's grounds. At a certain point, unmarked to the stranger's eye, a
rustic flight of stairs, now strewn with dead leaves--padded with snow as
well, to-night, dips down from the broad driveway. Quickly I made my way
by this path, and erelong, stood upon one of the little rustic bridges
spanning the ravine, and connecting with a similar flight of ascending
stairs upon the other side. There I paused, and well I might. It were a
dull, plodding creature indeed, who would not be spellbound by such a
scene! On either hand were the sloping wooded sides of the ravine whose
depths were shrouded in the mysterious whiteness of the fog; above me, a
short distance in front, was the arch of the broad, picturesque bridge
with which the driveway spans the hollow. The little rustic bridge on
which I stood was much lower than the larger one; hence, from my
position, I looked through t