ss in its heart; cool,
with a latent vivifying warmth forever peeping out of its coat-tail
pocket.

June does not define it, nor September. It has no synonym, for there is
nothing like it. I am glad that I have lived to see hedges of
heliotrope, of geraniums and calla-lilies. I remember, in contrast,
solitary calla plants that I have nursed with care all winter in hopes
of one blossom for Easter. And I do not feel sure that I can ever tear
myself away. I am reminded of good old Dr. Watts, who was invited by
Lady Abney to pass a fortnight at her home, and remained for forty
years.

Here we all unconsciously eat the lotus in some occult fashion, are
straightway bewitched and held willing captives. I have looked up the
lotus, about which so much is said or sung and so little definitely
known, and find it is a prickly shrub of Africa, bearing a fruit of a
sweet taste, and the early Greeks knew all about its power. Homer in the
Odyssey says that whoever ate of the fruit wished never to depart nor
again to see his native land. Many of Ulysses' sailors ate this fruit,
and lost all desire for home.

The last letter received by me from New Hampshire, April 3d, begins in
this way: "It is like the middle of winter here, good sleighing and
still very cold." And then comes a sad series of announcements of
sickness and deaths caused by the protracted rigors of the season. And
here, at the same date, all the glories of the spring, which far exceeds
our summer--Spanish breezes, Italian sky and sunsets, Alpine mountains,
tropical luxuriance of vegetation, a nearly uniform climate, a big
outdoor conservatory. There is no other place on earth that combines so
much in the same limits. You can snowball your companions on Christmas
morning on the mountain-top, pelt your lady friends with rose leaves in
the foot-hills three hours later, and in another sixty minutes dip in
the surf no cooler than Newport in July; and the theatre in the evening.
As a bright workman said, you can freeze through and thaw out in one
day.

An electric railroad will soon connect Los Angeles with Pasadena and
Mount Wilson, and a fine hotel is to be placed on the top of Echo
Mountain, 3500 feet high, and this will then certainly be the ideal
health and pleasure resort of the world.

Pasadena's homes, protected on three sides by mountain ranges, are
surrounded by groves and gardens, trees and hedges from every clime.
Everything will grow and flourish here. Capit