Poor France, Thy Fine Climate, Rich Vineyards,

But The Moment A Bird Was Dead, No Matter How Beautiful It Had Been In Life, The Pleasure Of Possession Became Blunted For Me.

There Is The Morass, Wherein You Plunge Up To Your Knees, Or The Walking Over The Stubborn, Dwarfish Shrubbery, Whereby One Treads Down The Forests Of Labrador; And The Unexpected Bunting Or Sylvia Which Perchance, And Indeed As If By Chance Alone, You Now And Then See Flying Before You, Or Hear Singing From The Ground Creeping Plant.

On Landing At New York I Caught The Yellow Fever By Walking To The Bank At Greenwich To Get The Money To Which My Father's Letter Of Credit Entitled Me. The Kind Man Who Commanded The Ship That Brought Me From France, Whose Name Was A Common One, John Smith, Took Particular Charge Of Me, Removed Me To Morristown, N. J., And Placed Me Under The Care Of Two Quaker Ladies Who Kept A Boarding - House. To Their Skilful And Untiring Ministrations I May Safely Say I Owe The Prolongation Of My Life.

. . .nature Indifferently Copied Is Far Superior To The Best Idealities.

The Nature Of The Place...whether High Or Low, Moist Or Dry, Whether Sloping North Or South, Or Bearing Tall Trees Or Low Shrubs...generally Gives Hint As To Its Inhabitants.