f buried in sand,
only its front being visible, seemed to afford Miss Martineau no end of
surprised amusement as she climbed to its submerged roof on her way to
the summit of the hill. A window-garden of tittering young women
merrily watched the progress of the quick-stepping Englishwoman, and,
really, there was some provocation to mirth, from their stand-point.
Anything approaching a _blanket_, plain, plaided, or striped, had never
disported itself before their astonished gaze as a part of feminine
apparel, except on the back of a grimy squaw. Of blanket-shawls, soon to
become a staple article of trade, the Western women had not then even
heard; and here was a civilized and cultivated creature enveloped in
what seemed to be a gay trophy wrested from the bed-furniture! Then,
too, the "only sweet thing" in bonnets was the demure "cottage,"
fashioned of fine straw, while the woman in view sported a coarse, pied
affair, whose turret-like crown and flaring brim pointed ambitiously
skyward. Stout boots completed the costume criticised and laughed over
by the merry maidens who yet stood in wholesome awe of the presence of
the wearer. With what a wealth of gorgeous wild flowers and plumy ferns
the pilgrims came laden on their return! Quoting from "Society in
America," page 253, Miss Martineau says, "The scene was like what I had
always fancied the Norway coast, but for the wild flowers, which grew
among the pines on the slope almost into the tide. I longed to spend an
entire day on this flowery and shadowy margin of the inland sea. I
plucked handfuls of pea-vine and other trailing flowers, which seemed to
run all over the ground."

Miss Martineau piled her treasures on a table and culled the specimens
worthy of pressing, and it seemed to pain her to reject the least
promising of her perishable plunder. She must have had a passion for
flowers, judging from the tenderness with which she handled the lovely
fronds and delicate petals under inspection, while her mouth was
continually open in admiring exclamation.

And now came what I still fondly remember as the _Musicale_. A little
comrade came in the twilight to sing songs with me. With arms
interlaced, we paced the upper hall, vociferously warbling as breath was
given us, when a door opened, and the gifted, dark-faced woman, with
kindly eyes, beamed out on us. "Come," she called, "come in here,
children, and sing your songs for me: I am very fond of music." Very
bashfully we s