Not a morning, my dear H., do I look upon these fields of living green but that I think of you and your daily routine of office duties. I take a seat beneath one of these forbidden-fruit trees while the land breeze is freighting the valley with perfume, the sun just peeping over the hills, and the white mists, beautiful as a bridal veil, slowly rising up the mountain green; now listening to the voice of a favorite mock-bird, and then to the softer cooings of a mourning-dove. A strange-looking little hummy perches on the first dead limb before me. Parrots squawk, and a dozen blackbirds chime one chorus, while other varieties chirp and trill. The whole scene is Elysian. Then along comes a sparrow-hawk, and choo-ee! choo-ee! choo-ee! off they all go, helter-skelter. Of whom is this a picture? You are toiling away, arranging rude manuscripts, at times almost discouraged, but still toiling on in your close, hot rooms--and this for the good of your race. Well, Heaven grant they may thank you for it, and save you from crying at last, “Choo-ee! choo-ee!” But, ah!--even worse than that--I am afraid the sparrow-hawks will catch you! With me, the end of every thing is that of the birds--a melancholy aggravation. I have been entranced by these morning scenes but a passing short while, and will soon be compelled to leave them and take a lonely ride to the coast, thence to depart for a season. I therefore stuff my saddle-bags with oranges and cinnamon-apples, as I think this is wiser than weeping. * * * * * An absence of precisely four weeks, and we are once again in sight of Porto Plata. “The moon is up, and yet it is not night.” Some kind of a holiday being at hand, men, women, and children are riding to and fro up and down the streets on donkeys, mules, and ponies of every description. The scene is truly picturesque. I could but remark to my friend the Protestant exhorter, the grandeur of the evening, to which he replied, “A man that could find fault with this climate would find fault with Paradise.” I do not believe him, however, for whether the day and night trips along the coast have been too much for me or not, I have certainly got the chill-fever. * * * * * This morning, July 7th, I visited the tomb of the Wesleyan missionary to whose labors here I have before referred. The following inscription will furnish the data to such of your readers as are interested in the history of such missions: IN MEMORY OF THE REV. WM. TOWER, WHO WAS BORN AT HORNCASTLE, LINCOLNSHIRE, ENGLAND, ON THE 12TH FEBRUARY, 1811, AND ENTERED UPON THE MISSIONARY WORK OF EVANGELIZING THIS ISLAND IN 1838.