In the noon of these days,
as we have said, we occasionally climbed the banks and approached
these houses, to get a glass of water and make acquaintance with
their inhabitants. High in the leafy bank, surrounded commonly
by a small patch of corn and beans, squashes and melons, with
sometimes a graceful hop-yard on one side, and some running vine
over the windows, they appeared like beehives set to gather honey
for a summer. I have not read of any Arcadian life which
surpasses the actual luxury and serenity of these New England
dwellings. For the outward gilding, at least, the age is golden
enough. As you approach the sunny doorway, awakening the echoes
by your steps, still no sound from these barracks of repose, and
you fear that the gentlest knock may seem rude to the Oriental
dreamers. The door is opened, perchance, by some Yankee-Hindoo
woman, whose small-voiced but sincere hospitality, out of the
bottomless depths of a quiet nature, has travelled quite round to
the opposite side, and fears only to obtrude its kindness.
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