it. If it were attempted by any one, he
would find himself flying across Tucker-
man's Ravine very speedily. But there
are now ventilators on the depot building,
where the government party is stationed.
Up one of these climbs Sergeant Hurn,
pokes his anemometer out, and the wind
does the rest. The government was
mystified for a while in regard to this
method of measuring the wind when it
was blowing at such a rate, and inquired
how it was done. The plan is ingenious,
and much more pleasant than exposing
one's self to the wind, as was the custom
last
year.

But to make a long story short, Mr. Kilburn is now here, and has agreed to ascend Mount Willard with us, on snowshoes, after dinner.

Did you ever try to walk on snowshoes over snow-drifts twenty feet deep, and up a steep mountain? No? Well then, tie a large broom to each foot with the handles backwards, or if you prefer a stiff cocoa door mat to a broom, try it. Now walk out into the snow, then, as you lift one foot, catch the front of one broom fast to the handle of the other, and fall down, hands first. Could you ever extricate yourself from such a predicament? Not well; but you would feel as one feels when he experiences his first fall with snow-shoes on. However, you will soon become accustomed to them, and it is astonishing what a help they become. One sinks with them but two or three inches into the softest snow.

like rain now, and coats and vests may be thrown open, and gloves discarded. Through vast forests of evergreens, heavily laden with frozen snow, we clamber up, up, UP. When stopping, the pervading silence can be heard almost, as darkness can be felt, for not a sound falls upon our ears except the throbbing of our own hearts. See how the snow hangs in thick masses upon the bowed-down trees. These must be the winter wardrobes of the fairies and the nymphs. Nearer the summit the snow is thinner upon the trees, and gives greater detail to their shapes, each tiny limb coming in for its share of the burden and the splendor. Here the fairies get their laces, and their haberdasheries, and their embroideries, and their fine jewelry. The sight is one not to be described, but Mr. Kilburn's busy camera has been poked in here and there among them. He has secured some grand stereoscopic views of these trees in their winter garments.

After one hour and twenty minutes of hot work the summit is gained. We receive a very cool reception from Mr. B. O. Reas, who reigns up here, but despite his howlings, we can remain a few minutes, snap some of his ice to quench our thirst, then drink in the great view before us, which seems like the hold of a great vessel. Forty miles away we see the sharp sides of Mount Chocorua, white as driven snow, looking like a great pyramid against a background of most beautiful ultramarine blue. Down the valNow we all put them on, and off we go. ley is the Saco, fighting its winding way Carefully at first. Put your mind to the through the snow, and the great ravine work; assume an easy, duck-like swagger, lies snow-covered and slumbering at our and you will get along. We will take feet. The "silver cascade" and all its tiny the short cut across the fields to the companions are fettered by the strong base of the mountain, for the fences are grip of the ice king, and their noisy all under the snow, and we need not gurglings are hushed. The imprecations regard them. Now the work begins. of our frigid host compel us to leave, for Throw open your outer garments, for we fear the result of disobedience, though you will soon be warm with the exertion. we know that his threats are all blow. Up, up we clamber, step by step. The We can make the descent in half the time ascent is steep, and therefore tiresome. occupied in ascending, and with much So we will not hasten, but with slow, less labor. swaggering, swinging stride, step along, feel a desire for a snowany of you stopping often to take breath, for the air shoe race, here is your opportunity. is growing more and more rare as we advance. The perspiration rolls down

If

But haven't we tired the reader with the record of our delightful week in the

White Hills when they are white? They must come and see, and believe what pleasure we have had together, when down through the Crawford Notch we travelled, shying an icicle at the "Elephant's Head," kissing our hands to the "Old Maid," and shouting at the answering echoes towards the Willey House. How over the fences we strode with our snowshoes, and over great rocks that last summer caused us some effort to get up to the top of them.

We need not detail the grand views we have just had from this Notch. Coming back we met Mount Willard face to face, the congealed cascades hanging down his snowy front, and his frowning, wrinkled, and frost-bitten cliffs, which we mastered a few hours before, seem ready to cast themselves upon us.

All night at the Crawford House Cottage, and in the morning away for a fish. O! how the pickerel and the trout do swarm in these mountain streams! Cut. twenty hofes in the ice; over each suspend a little bough, to which fasten a little red flag, and a hook and line. Now march back and forth, warming yourself betimes by the great fire built for you, and watch. Down bends the little bough, making the little flag to curtsey. Run! pull! quick! Ah! what a fine fellow you have floundering in the air! And that is fishing. You do not suffer from cold, for your twenty lines keep you both busy and warm.

But this is only one of the rare sports enjoyed by those who visit these white hills in winter. We must return to Littleton, for the storm-clouds are gathering.

FAREWELL.

BY MARY R. BOSWORTH.

WE

E have been wandering in the valleys fair,
The valleys green, where sweet the breezes blow,
Where rarest perfumes scent the Summer air,
And where the blue forget-me-nots do grow.

My hand still clasped in yours, I've wandered on,
Forgetting all, save that I walked with you;
Forgetting, 'till the Summer day is gone,

And up the valley comes the mist so blue,—

The cold, cold evening mist that chills the heart,
That poisons the sweet air, and drowns the light;
And now we walk with hands unclasped-apart,
And up the valley come the clouds of night.

Dark up the valley sweep the clouds of night,
And from our vale the beauty all has gone;
But high above, the mountain peaks are bright,—
The peaks that still the golden sun shines on.

O! sweet the sunlight sleeps on that far height,
And strains of heavenly music rise and swell;
And hands are beckoning from the vision bright,
My heart is with them:-friend, a long Farewell!

SKETCHES IN ROME.

BY MRS. C. II. B. LAING.

THE CRYPT OF ST. PETER'S.

HERE is but one day in the three

entranced by the glowing creations of and the Loggie of the Vatican, or have walked through the sculpture galleries of that same mussive pile by torch-light. under the guidance and instruction of the

woman is allowed to penetrate into the sacred precincts of St. Peter's Crypt. This day falls on the Sunday next after the Festa of St. Peter and St. Paul, (29th June,) and if the feminine forest-eminent archæologist, Shakspeare Wood, eiri in Rome possess their full inheritance granted from mother Eve, this day will find them flocking to St. Peter's, and descending into the subterranean mysteries of the ancient basilica.

It is unfortunate, however, for those who might appreciate such a privilege, that the opportunity offers itself when Rome is comparatively deserted, not only by travellers, or foresteiri, but by the foreign residents, artists, et cetera. These last close their pleasant dwellings about the middle of June, and flit away among the hills, renting charming villas at Albano or Frescati, perhaps amid the sylvan glades of Tivoli, with the music of the Cascatelles lulling them to forgetfulness of the busy world beyond those olivecrowned heights-or, with a wider flight from the Seven Hills, settle down to a life of peaceful study within the castellated walls of Perugia's ancient city.

and then, turning from ancient art, have day after day glanced in at the studios of Buchanan Read, of Hazeltine, Inness, Freeman, Healy, and Inman, and the sculpture rooms of Ives, Harnisch, Rogers, Miss Hosmer, Reinhart, and Simmons, and other noted studios-who have witnessed the grand ceremonies of Easter-day, have beheld the venerable Pope, and perchance received his blessing-who have felt themselves, as it were, transported from all earthly scenes by the silver trumpet's sweet strains, blending with angelic harmony from the lofty dome, until it seemed as if each note found entrance to the hearts of the kneeling worshippers in the grand courts below; and who, as the imposing finale of Easter-day, have witnessed the miraculous illumination of St. Peter's "in the twinkling of an eye," and beheld from the shores of the Tiber that mighty The strangers who this year (the dome swinging in the darkness, a globe Ecumenical year) came to Rome, ming of light descending, as it were, from the ling all nationalities in the interest awak- skies, with heaven's own golden lamps;ened by the gathering of bishops and these strangers, tired at length of Rome's ecclesiastics, who, at the summons of inexhaustible treasures, and having "used Pius IX., have come hither from far dis-up all available excitements, find, like tant shores to join the Ecumenical Coun- Sir Charles Coldstream in the play. cil, after viewing the mighty conclave "there's nothing in it!" So they turn the assembled beneath the Dome of St. Pe- key upon their little hoards of Roman ter's after having penetrated the halls of pearls and Roman sashes, their rosaries, the Cæsars-ascended the Coliseum by blessed by the old Pope himself-their moonlight-toiled through the baths of bits of antiquated marbles, and mosaics. Caracalla and the catacombs of St. Ca- and whirl away from the hotels by the lixtus; after visiting again and again the first of May, and betake them to other picture galleries of the Doria, the Bor- scenes and "pastures new." And thus ghese, and the Corsini palaces, and stood it happens, when the third of July brings