ne bright afternoon we took horse and "shay" for Siasconset, on the
south side of the island. A drive of seven miles over a country as flat
and as naked of trees as a Western prairie, the sandy soil covered with
a low, thick growth of bayberry, whortleberry, a false cranberry called
the meal-plum, and other plants bearing a strong family likeness, with
here and there a bit of greensward,--a legacy, probably, of the flocks
of sheep the natives foolishly turned off the island,--brought us to the
spot. We passed occasional water-holes, that reminded us also of the
West, and a few cattle. Two or three lonely farm-houses loomed up in the
distance, like ships at sea. We halted our rattle-trap on a bluff
covered with thick green turf. On the edge of this bluff, forty feet
above the beach, is Siasconset, looking southward over the ocean,--no
land between it and Porto Rico. It is only a fishing village; but if
there were many like it, the conventional shepherd, with his ribbons,
his crooks, and his pipes, would have to give way to the fisherman.
Seventy-five cosey, one-story cottages, so small and snug that a
well-grown man might touch the gables without rising on tip-toe, are
drawn up in three rows parallel to the sea, with narrow lanes of turf
between them,--all of a weather-beaten gray tinged with purple, with
pale-blue blinds, vines over the porch, flowers in the windows, and
about each one a little green yard enclosed by white palings. Inside are
odd little rooms, fitted with lockers, like the cabin of a vessel.
Cottages, yards, palings, lanes, all are in proportion and harmony.
Nothing common or unclean was visible,--no heaps of fish-heads, served
up on clam-shells, and garnished with bean-pods, potato-skins, and
corn-husks; no pigs in sight, nor in the air,--not even a cow to imperil
the neatness of the place. There was the brisk, vigorous smell of the
sea-shore, flavored, perhaps, with a suspicion of oil, that seemed to be
in keeping with the locality.

We sat for a long time gazing with silent astonishment upon this
delightful little toy village, that looked almost as if it had been made
at Nuremberg, and could be picked up and put away when not wanted to
play with. It was a bright, still afternoon. The purple light of sunset
gave an additional charm of color to the scene. Suddenly the _lumen
juventae purpureum_, the purple light of youth, broke upon it. Handsome,
well-dressed girls, with a few polygynic young men in the