s face,--the deep and thoughtful eyes, filled with the calm serenity
of his soul. And then the ease and freedom of his life! Plenty of air and
space, and plenty of time to breathe and move! Having nothing, possessing
all things! No bonds to guard,--no cares to stifle,--no trains to
catch,--no appointments to keep,--no fashions to follow,--no follies to
shun! Only the old wife and worthless, lazy dog, and the rod and the
creel! Only the blessed sunshine and fresh, sweet air, and the cool touch
of deep woods.

No, there is no story--only Jonathan.

ALONG THE BRONX

Hidden in our memories there are quaint, quiet nooks tucked away at the
end of leafy lanes; still streams overhung with feathery foliage; gray
rocks lichen-covered; low-ground meadows, knee-deep in lush grass;
restful, lazy lakes dotted with pond-lilies; great, wide-spreading trees,
their arms uplifted in song, their leaves quivering with the melody.

I say there are all these delights of leaf, moss, ripple, and shade stored
away somewhere in our memories,--dry bulbs of a preceding summer's bloom,
that need only the first touch of spring, the first glorious day in June,
to break out into flower. When they do break out, they are generally
chilled in the blooming by the thousand and one difficulties of prolonged
travel, time of getting there and time of getting back again, expense, and
lack of accommodations.

If you live in New York--and really you should not live anywhere
else!--there are a few buttons a tired man can touch that will revive for
him all these delights in half an hour's walk, costing but a car-fare, and
robbing no man or woman of time, even without the benefits of the
eight-hour law.

You touch one of these buttons when you plan to spend an afternoon along
the Bronx.

There are other buttons, of course. You can call up the edges of the
Palisades, with their great sweep of river below, the seething, steaming
city beyond; or, you can say "Hello!" to the Upper Harlem, with its
house-boats and floating restaurants; or you can ring up Westchester and
its picturesque waterline. But you cannot get them all together in half an
hour except in one place, and that is along the Bronx.

The Bronx is the forgotten, the overlooked, the "disremembered," as the
provincial puts it. Somebody may know where it begins--I do not. I only
know where it ends. What its early life may be, away up near White Plains,
what farms it waters, what dairies it coo