The mild breeze bore in the sweet perfume of the honey-suckle from a neighbouring arbour, and the broad Potomac, stretched tranquilly onwards, undisturbed save by the occasional jibe of the boom, or lazy creak of the rudder of some craft, reflected with her white sails upon its surface. The garden, with its white-gravelled walks, bordered with box, descended in parterres to the river’s edge—an embroidered carpet of flowers; and lemon and orange trees, released from their winter’s confinement, displayed their golden fruit, hanging amid the green leaves in tempting profusion. I bent over and looked into the hammock, and could not but admire the serenity of the manly features, the measured heave of the broad chest, and the masses of raven locks, playing around the white forehead of the sleeper, as they were slowly lifted by the play of the passing wind. I thought it were a sin to disturb him, so drawing out my cigar case, I stretched myself on the settee at his side, complacently reclining my head upon its arm. Whiles watching the blue smoke of my “Regalia,” as it slowly wreathed and floated above my head—whiles watching the still dreamy flow of the river—and whiles—if I must confess it—cogitating which had been the wisest, myself the bachelor, or Tom the married man,—Tom, myself, the dogs, forming a tolerably correct picture of _still_ life,—a still life that remained unbroken for some half hour, when through the glass door of the drawing-room a beautiful boy of three or four years came galloping into the piazza, and bounding towards the dogs, threw himself full length upon the shaggy Newfoundlander, manfully striving to pull open his huge jaws with his little hands. The Newfoundlander opening his eyes, saw me, and raising himself on his legs, gave a low growl; while the child, relinquishing his hold upon the ears to which he had clung, as the dog rose to his feet, came slowly up to me, and placing his plump little hands upon my knee, looked curiously and inquiringly into my face, his golden locks falling in a profusion of ringlets down his superb sunburnt shoulders. I was charmed with the confidence, and innocence, and sweetness beaming from his gaze, and took him upon my knee, his hand playing with my watch guard, while his beautiful blue eyes remained fixed in the same look of curious inquiry on mine. I said it was a picture of _still_ life. Tom, aroused by the dog, slowly lifted his head over the edge of the hammock, rubbed his eyes as if uncertain whether he were in a dream, as I calmly and silently returned his astonished gaze, and then, with a single swing, was at my side, both of my hands clasped in his. The next moment, I fancy the picture was other than _still_ life.