ut
on the verandah, when a storm of music burst out from a little
summer-house on the grass. Wherever I go this sort of ovation follows
me. Music and flowers seem to be my destiny. No matter where I roam, in
all the steamboats and hotels they send storms of homage after me. Well,
I am grateful, and I hope bear these honors with Christian meekness.

I have been riding all along the beach. The sun has gone down and the
ocean ripples to the softest and blandest wind I ever felt. The vessels
that move on it show signs of life now. Their great white sails bend and
strain with a look of power. The day has been hot, but a cool wind comes
off the water, and you breathe once more.

Sisters, do not be led to suppose that the Ocean Hotel, large and grand
as it is, means all Long Branch. Why, there is a mile of hotels and
cottages running along the beach, all swarming over with people. As you
ride up the street you pass dozens and dozens of little summer-houses,
full of young people looking out at the sea, which comes in with a slow
rush and swell now that leaves a lonesome feeling in the heart.

LXXX.

THE RACE-COURSE.

There is a race-ground three miles from here, where everybody is going
this morning, though the weather is hot and the ocean is sound asleep,
with great silver scales of sunshine trembling over it.

New York has come down in crowds to Long Branch, and all the hotels have
emptied themselves on to the race-course. Three miles of road are
covered with moving carriages, wagons and stages--one cloud of yellow
dust rolls along the road without a break. Every carriage is gay with
brightly dressed ladies. Thousands go up or down on the railroad, whose
engine stops and pours out clouds of black smoke close by the race
track. From the cars a stream of people now on to the course, packing
themselves into the benches of the Grand Stand, or scattering on the
grass around it.

When we got into the enclosure fifteen thousand people were waiting,
some in the hot sun, others in the hot shade, all choked with dust and
sweltering with heat.

We were late. There was but one thing that we wanted to see: the race
between Longfellow and Harry Bassett--two of the swiftest horses in the
country.

If horses could gamble I should call these two beautiful creatures
black-legs, and the gayest of gamboliers; but as they can't do it
themselves men and women do it for them.

This time twenty-five thousand dollars was to go to