d village of Peewawkin, on the Tocketuck River.
A few weeks of leisure, country air, and exercise, I thought might be of essential service to me. So I turned my key upon my cares and studies, and my back to the city, and one fine evening of early June the mail coach rumbled over Tocketuck Bridge, and left me at the house of Dr. Singletary, where I had been fortunate enough to secure bed and board.
The little village of Peewawkin at this period was a well-preserved specimen of the old, quiet,rstand it; it is the voice of the pines yonder,—a sort of morning song of praise to the Giver of life and Maker of beauty.
My ear is dull now, and I cannot hear it; but I know it is sounding on as it did when I first climbed up here in the bright June mornings of boyhood, and it will sound on just the same when the deafness of the grave shall settle upon my failing senses.
Did it never occur to you that this deafness and blindness to accustomed beauty and harmony is one of the saddest thoughts