Peter Bobbins says that the rain of yesterday has not reached the potatoes, after all. Exorbitant potatoes! It takes a good deal to reach them,—serious preaching to convert them . . .

  After passing Hubbard’s Bridge, looking up the smooth river between the rows of button-bushes, willows, and pads, we see the sun shining on Fair Haven Hill behind a sun-born cloud, while we are in shadow,—a misty golden light, yellow, fern-like, with shadows of clouds flitting across its slope,—and horses in their pasture standing with outstretched necks to watch us . . .