Uncle Sam to anger; hear him pouring out a torrent of eloquent vituperation, forgetting all else in the joy of freeing his mind.
Pausing to draw breath, he glanced round, and, seeing an unfamiliar landscape, exclaimed, “Where are we?”
, I think!”
said our mother quietly.
Hardly less dear to us than Green Peace, and far dearer to her, was the summer home at Lawton's Valley
, in Portsmouth
,1 Rhode Island
Here, as at South Boston
, the Doctor
's genius for “construction and repairs” wrought a lovely miracle.
He found a tiny farmhouse, sheltered from the seawinds by a rugged hillock; near at hand, a rocky gorge, through which tumbled a wild little stream, checked here and there by a rude dam; in one place turning the wheel of a mill, where the neighboring farmers brought corn to grind.
His quick eye caught the possibilities of the situation.
He bought the place and proceeded to make of it a second earthly paradise.
The house was enlarged, trees were felled here, planted there; a garden appeared as if by magic; in the Valley
itself the turbulent stream was curbed by stone embankments; the open space became an emerald lawn, set at intervals with Norway
spruces; under the great ash tree that towered in the centre rustic seats and tables were placed.
Here, through many years, the “Mistress
of the Valley
” was to pass her happiest hours; to the Valley
and its healing balm of quiet she owed the inspiration of much of her best work.
The following letters fill in the picture of a time to