ght purple blossoms,
called laurel flowers, but not like our laurels, spring up from the bases
of grey rocks and boulders; sometimes a rich array of blood-red berries
gleams out of a mass of greenery; then again great floral white radii,
tipped with snowy petals, rise up profuse and lofty; down by the ditches
hundreds of pitcher plants lift their veined and mottled vases, brimming
with water, to the wood-birds who drink and perch upon their thick rims;
May-flowers of delightful fragrance hide beneath those shining,
tropical-looking leaves, and meadow-sweet, not less fragrant, but less
beautiful, pours its tender aroma into the fresh air; here again we see
the buckthorn in blossom; there, scattered on the turf, the scarlet
partridge berry; then wild-cherry trees, mere shrubs only, in full bud;
and around all and above all, the evergreens, the murmuring pines, and the
hemlocks; the rampikes--the grey-beards of the primeval forest; the spicy
breath of resinous balsams; the spiry tops, and the serene heaven. Is this
fairy land? No, it is only poor, old, barren Nova Scotia, and yet I think
Felix, Prince of Salerno, if he were here, might say, and say truly too,
"In all my life I never beheld a more enchanting place;" but Felix, Prince
of Salerno, must remember this is the month of June, and summer is not
perpetual in the latitude of forty-five.

We reach at last Deer's Castle. Pony, under the hands of Bill, seems
remarkably cheerful and fresh after his long travel up hill and down. When
he pops out of his harness, with his knock-knees and sturdy, stocky little
frame, he looks very like an animated saw-buck, clothed in seal-skin; and
with a jump, and snort, and flourish of tail, he escorts Bill to the
stable, as if twenty miles over a rough road was a trifle not worth
consideration.

A savory odor of frying bacon and eggs stole forth from the door as we
sat, in the calm summer air, upon the stone fence. William Deer, Jr., was
wandering about in front of the castle, endeavoring to get control of his
under lip and keep his exuberant mirth within the limits of decorum; but
every instant, to use a military figure, it would flash in the pan. Up on
the bare rocks were the wretched, woe-begone, patched, and ragged log
huts of poor Cuffee. The hour and the season were suggestive of
philosophizing, of theories, and questions.

"Mrs. Deer," said I, "is that your husband's portrait on the back of the
sign?" (there was a picture of a s