A short time ago,
           I was
              favored with a flying
                   visit from
                       my young friend Eustace Bright,
         whom I had not
             before met with
               since quitting
                   the breezy mountains of Berkshire.

    It being the winter vacation
           at his college,
         Eustace was
              allowing himself a little relaxation,
         in the hope,
           he told me,
         of repairing the inroads
              which severe application to study
                had made upon his health;
        and I
            was happy to conclude,
           from the excellent physical condition
             in which I saw him,
         that the remedy
            had already
                been attended
                       with very desirable success.

    He had now
          run up from Boston
               by the noon train,
           partly impelled
               by the friendly regard
             with which
                 he is
                      pleased to honor me,
         and partly,
           as I soon found,
         on a matter
               of literary business.

    It delighted me
          to receive Mr. Bright,
           for the first time,
         under a roof,
           though a very humble one,
         which I
            could really call my own.

    Nor did I fail
         (as is the custom
               of landed proprietors all
             about the world)
          to parade the poor fellow
               up and
             down over
                   my half
                 a dozen acres;
            secretly rejoicing,
               nevertheless,
             that the disarray
                   of the inclement season,
               and particularly the six inches
                   of snow then
                 upon the ground,
             prevented him
                   from observing the ragged neglect
                       of soil
                     and shrubbery into
                  which the place had lapsed.

    It was idle,
           however,
         to imagine
             that an airy guest
                   from Monument Mountain,
           Bald Summit,
         and old Graylock,
           shaggy with primeval forests,
         could see anything
              to admire
                   in my poor little hillside,
           with its growth of frail
               and insect-eaten locust trees.

    Eustace very frankly
          called the view
               from my hill top tame;
        and so,
           no doubt,
         it was,
           after rough,
         broken,
           rugged,
         headlong Berkshire,
           and especially the northern parts
               of the county,
         with which his college residence
            had made him familiar.

    But to me
        there is a peculiar,
           quiet charm
               in these broad meadows
                   and gentle eminences.

    They are better than mountains,
           because they
              do not stamp
                   and stereotype themselves
                 into the brain,
         and thus
              grow wearisome
                   with the same strong impression,
           repeated day after day.

    A few summer weeks
           among mountains,
         a lifetime
               among green meadows
                   and placid slopes,
         with outlines forever new,
           because continually
              fading out of the memory
          --such would be
               my sober choice.

    I doubt
         whether Eustace
            did not internally
                  pronounce the whole thing
                       a bore,
           until I led
               him to my
                 predecessor's
                    little ruined,
         rustic summer house,
           midway on the hillside.

    It is a mere skeleton
           of slender,
         decaying tree trunks,
         with neither walls
              nor a roof;
        nothing but a tracery
               of branches
             and twigs,
           which the next wintry blast
            will be very likely
                  to scatter in fragments
                       along the terrace.

    It looks,
           and is,
         as evanescent as a dream;
        and yet,
           in its rustic network
               of boughs,
         it has somehow
              enclosed a hint
                   of spiritual beauty,
           and has
              become a true emblem
                   of the subtile
                 and ethereal mind
             that planned it.

    I made Eustace Bright
          sit down
               on a snow bank,
           which had
              heaped itself
                   over the mossy seat,
         and gazing
               through the arched windows opposite,
           he acknowledged
             that the scene at once
                grew picturesque.

    "Simple as it looks,"
          said he,
               "this little edifice seems
                  to be
                       the work of magic.

    It is full of suggestiveness,
           and,
         in its way,
           is as good
               as a cathedral.

    Ah,
           it would be
              just the spot for one