vents,
were all wanting, and therefore the West, prosperous as it was, could
not be compared to the rock-bound coasts of New England or the
beautiful shores of New York Bay, so filled with legends and adventures,
memories of the past, battles and shipwrecks, all dating back before the
first axe resounded in the Western wilderness. Everything here was new.
There were no houses with the marks of Revolutionary bullets, no
families of unbroken aristocratic descent from over the ocean, no
traditions of Colonial times, no stories of danger, no interesting
relics: a few tales of pioneer life, a few encounters with the Indians,
composed the annals of the town; and the prosaic reality of its life was
as new and glaring as the white paint on its houses.

These thoughts we expressed to Uncle John as he joined us on the beach,
bringing the baskets containing our picnic dinner: over the sandwiches,
cakes and native Catawba we dilated upon the subject, and invited him to
visit us at Winthrop, where the very atmosphere was redolent with old
associations and the beach a treasure-house of strange relics. Our quiet
uncle smiled as we talked, and when we had finished our lunch and
climbed the cliff he took us to a pleasant stone house and introduced us
to its owner, a silver-haired gentleman of the old school, whose
personal appearance and courtly manners filled us with admiration and
respect. Living thus quietly on the lake-shore, this man of learning and
science had spent many years absorbed in natural history and its kindred
pursuits, in close communion with Nature, loved by his neighbors and
honored by the naturalists of the whole country for his persevering
industry and valuable discoveries. Surrounded by his birds, bees and
flowers, the beautiful old man received us with kindly courtesy, and
from him we heard a story of the past, authenticated by records and old
letters, and illustrated by relics found on the beach below, washed up
by the waves or exposed to view by the shifting of the sands. Deeply
interested in the narrative, we yet found it hard to believe that the
peaceful hazy lake and the little stream rippling over the bar had ever
been the scene of the raging tempest, desolation and death described in
the story. But as we drove homeward in the evening the sun went down in
a lurid cloud, and a wind came driving up from the east, whirling the
dry leaves in circles and blowing the dust in eddies at the corners of
the streets. A