were patched with lichens here and there; a graceful willow drooped from the shore in front of it; a huge maple intermingled its leaves with those of the willow; its projecting roots, that sought to lay their long fingers in the stream, held bunches of fern fronds. The sunshine flecked the rocks reposing in the brown bed of the river. Where we sat was a deep hollow, but mosquitoes were unknown; birds flew and sang among the branches overhead, and the blue sky, with its floating cloudlets, looked down at us between the green curtains of the trees. My friend and I usually produce two different pictures of the same spot, having a family resemblance, it is true. She tends to the diminutive, I to enlargement. The busy mills were sending their dreamy music around us. The house was about one hundred and twenty-five years old, but showed no sign of its age, being well preserved. A garden in front was bright with flowers. In one of the rooms was the handsomest buffet we ever saw, the top or wall of which was a large, fluted shell; it was carved, as all the rest of it was, by hand. We suggested what a fine niche it would make for a statue, of Prayer, for instance; but all the rest agreed that the old buffet had better remain as it was, filled with curiosities. After our lunch from our well-filled baskets and additions from our kindly hostess of strawberries, new-made butter, tea among other things, we went out with her to view the glen. Between two hills runs Mill River, its bed holding and reflecting all the hues of brown and green and gold where the sun peeps through the trees. Along one bank a

About half-way, roots of a maple,

narrow path with trees on each side. in a hollow in the hill, from out the over rocks, flows one of the coolest springs from which you ever drank. Our cold spring is no exception. The people in a house near by get all their water from it. From one side of the bank, in the hollow, a tiny stream runs into it. Wild flowers nodded among the ferns. A lovely spot. We longed to linger, but time forbade. A stroll in another place led through a wood path to a sun-lit lake, where pond lilies grew. A large bed of irregular rocks dammed up the stream here. This was the Flume. In spring, when the tides are high, the water rushes over it with great force. Now the water is low and steam power has to be used occasionally. Mrs. D. informed us that J. Appleton Brown and his wife were there a week ago painting from these scenes. They are well worthy a place on his canvas. Mr. Brown is a painter by profession and can sit down with confidence amid such scenes and work. But for amateurs, when we gaze on the faultless arrangement of trees, water and rocks, the tinting and blending of countless hues, the intermingling of light and shadow, the play of sunbeams peeping from nook and cranny, as if laughing at our perplexity and mocking our pencil, we feel as the old Scotch lady did who, when asked if she understood the preacher's sermon, said, "Wad I hae the presumption?" Yes, mortals "hae" a great deal of presumption when they think to imitate the inimitable works of God. But if our sketches are far from perfect, still they will ever recall

"the beauty of a day that is fled." The old mills, Dummer Mills as they are best known, are the oldest mills in this country. The time had come when the lady who brought us and who kindly offered to carry us back, arrived, and she added to her kindness by showing us a large part of Rowley. It is laid out in four squares. These open places give a pleasant, inviting look to the town, whose handsome and comfortable-looking houses, large, well-filled barns and handsome herds of cows look as if —

"Health and plenty cheered the laboring swain,"

and blessed others also. We were not back in time for the meeting, which was an interesting one as usual, and which adjourned after passing votes of thanks to the people of Rowley for their many kind attentions.

MES AMIS, LES CHIENS.

Dogs have been my friends from babyhood. The first remembrance stamped on my six-months' old brain, next to a mother's face, is of dogs. It stands out now with all the freshness and distinctness of one of Rembrandt's paintings; Rembrandt, who delighted in the effects of artificial light. It is this: a young mother with her infant on her arm, a lamp in her hand, bringing out all the dark shadows, going across the yard to the wood-shed, throwing back the door and showing the family dog with her little ones to the friend who

accompanied her. A French writer, the author of "The To-morrow of Death," mentions that it has been brought forward as an argument against preëxistence that we have no recollection of it. This, he says, is more of an argument for than against it; for the first two years of this life are a blank, and we often lose memory at the close of it. Be this as it may, the first two years of life are not a blank with all of us.

But," revenons à nos.chiens." It is pleasanter for me to meet my four-footed friends than to pass some bipeds who frequent the street. When I take my morning walk to the meat shop I pass a large, black Newfoundland. I say, "Come, Roger, you know where I am going." He looks up, wags his tail as if to answer, "Don't I?" He waits upon me to the store; on entering, he is ignominiously thrust out, because the master of the establishment (who is very kind to animals) says he is a thief. But I reply, in the fashionable parlance of the day, "Roger is afflicted with kleptomania." He waits on the step until I have finished my purchases, gallantly accompanies me as far as I go, and then meekly obeys the command to return home. Roger has just been taken into a family with Gypsy, an old dog of twenty years. Gyp is almost blind and wholly deaf, but retains his mental faculties so far as to appreciate his friends and to show an intense jealousy of Roger, who he plainly knows has been bought to take his place.

The provision store has many dog frequenters, some attending their owners and some entering in alone. Of these latter is David, a brown curly spaniel. In he

comes and tries to attract the storekeeper's notice. Finding this fails, he sits quietly on end and begs a long time, with a fixed, imploring eye, and when this, too, is unnoticed, he lifts up his voice with a loud, repeated howl which never fails to bring the expected morsel. This he repeats again and again-the begging, the howling-until told to leave. Jack comes in with his master; he is nearly a score of years old. His master says he wishes "some one would kill him." But I rather think it is all talk. I should as soon think of killing one of the family as of destroying an old, petted domestic animal which had spent his life under the same roof with me.

The names bestowed on favorite canines by people's fancy are somewhat curious. Some of my friends are called Fowler, Sailor, Music, Drive, Guard (this is a pretty and expressive one), Chip, Bushy, Rab, Smut, Drew, Bruno, Dom Pedro, Japan, Mike, Tasso, Budge, etc. On asking an acquaintance the name of his dog, he answered, "I call him Satan, for the pleasure of saying, "Get thee behind me, Satan !" Looking alternately at the master and dog, I inquired, "Which is Satan?" I remonstrated with him to no effect; and then told him I should change the dog's name to Satin, which I did, he answering to it quite as readily. I met the dog a few days after his master died. Satin was in fine spirits. He did not seem to grieve for the one who had given him such a vile misnomer. Milo is an old acquaintance; he is seventeen years of agenot quite so nimble on his legs as formerly, but watch