steady disposition. He came to us after
your Uncle Henry's death. Your Uncle Henry and Uncle Charles both lost
their lives in the Gettysburg fight. O this has been a terrible war! But
what we have gained may be worth the sacrifice; I hope so! I hope so!"
exclaimed the old gentleman, fervently.

"How old is Halstead?" I asked, after a silence of some minutes.

"He is fifteen; and your little cousins, Ellen and Wealthy, are twelve
and nine," replied the old gentleman, resuming his account of my cousins
to me. "They are your Uncle Charles' little girls, good dutiful children
as one would ever need to have."

It was a long drive. At length the road, bending round the north end of
the lake, led for half a mile or more up an easy hill. Here, on either
hand, fields, inclosed with wide stone walls, were now beginning to
show green a little through the dry grass of last year. Other fields,
ploughed and planted, faintly disclosed long rows of corn, just breaking
ground, presided over by tutelar scarecrows which drummed on pans and
turned glittering bits of tin as the breeze played over them.

"We have lately finished planting," grandfather explained to me. "The
crows are very bold this spring. Halstead and Addison have been
displaying their ingenuity out there, to frighten them off."

At some distance below the farm buildings, we entered between rows of
apple trees, on both sides of the walled road, trees so large and leafy,
that they quite shut out the fields. These were now in blossom.

"To-morrow will be White Sunday," grandfather remarked, as old Sol (the
farm horse) toiled up the long hill. "Nature's own bright Whitsuntide,
never brighter, despite war and mourning."

The great trees stood like huge bouquets; their peculiar, heavy odor
loaded the air, which resounded to the deep, musical hum of thousands of
bees. The near report of a gun rang out, followed by a great uproar of
crows.

"The boys are scaring them out of the wheat-field," said grandfather.

I was looking for the house, when old Sol turned in before a high
gate-frame of squared timber, overhung by the apple trees (we sometimes
walked across on the top timber from one tree into the other), and I
jumped down to open the gate. "Pull out the pin," grandfather said. I
did so, and the gate swung of its own accord, disclosing a grassy lane,
marked with wheel-ruts. The farm buildings stood at the head of the
lane; a two-story house, large on the ground, lately p