ood-red dome, a
good deal pointed. Streams of a greenish-white light radiated from the
centre in all directions. The colors were so deep, especially the red,
as to give an opaque appearance to the canopy, and as Orion and the
Pleiades and many more stars could be distinctly seen, the whole looked
like a vast dome inlaid with constellations. These skysights make one
shiver, so new are they, so splendid, so mysterious. We saw the heavens
grow pale, and before midnight believed that the mighty show was over;
but we had the mortification of hearing afterwards that at one o'clock
it was brighter than ever, and as light as day.

Such are some of the wintry characteristics of New England.

If I lived in Massachusetts, my residence during the hot months should
be beside one of its ponds. These ponds are a peculiarity in New England
scenery very striking to the traveller. Geologists tell us of the time
when the valleys were chains of lakes; and in many parts the eye of the
observer would detect this without the aid of science. There are many
fields and clusters of fields of remarkable fertility, lying in basins,
the sides of which have much the appearance of the greener and smoother
of the dykes of Holland. These suggest the idea of their having been
ponds at the first glance. Many remain filled with clear water, the
prettiest meres in the world. A cottage on Jamaica Pond, for instance,
within an easy ride of Boston, is a luxurious summer abode. I know of
one unequalled in its attractions, with its flower-garden, its lawn,
with banks shelving down to the mere,--banks dark with nestling pines,
from under whose shade the bright track of the moon may be seen, lying
cool on the rippling waters. A boat is moored in the cove at hand. The
cottage itself is built for coolness, and the broad piazza is draperied
with vines, which keep out the sun from the shaded parlor.

[Illustration: WASHINGTON ELM, CAMBRIDGE]

The way to make the most of a summer's day in a place like this is to
rise at four, mount your horse and ride through the lanes for two hours,
finding breakfast ready on your return. If you do not ride, you slip
down to the bathing-house on the creek; and, once having closed the
door, have the shallow water completely to yourself, carefully avoiding
going beyond the deep-water mark, where no one knows how deep the mere
may be. After breakfast you should dress your flowers, before those
you gather have quite lost the morning de