Lake Ponchartrain, where we are presently safely deposited, is one of the most picturesque spots in all this region; a silver shining sheet of water, on whose surface the passing clouds seem softly sailing, for the skies are reflected therein as in a mirror. We look across the water upon wide stretches of undulating cultivated lands, “with verdure clad,” a soft mossy carpet with purple flags and long lance-like grasses reaching down to the water’s edge. A lovely garden, artistically arranged with tropical flowers, fully half a mile long, runs along this side of the lake, and among the beds of gorgeous blossoms there are pretty winding walks, and rustic benches are arranged beneath wide-spreading shady trees. A glorious promenade runs like a golden band along the borders, and a pretty fancifully-built hotel and restaurant stands at the head of the lake. It is a perfect nest of a place, hung round with balconies and covered with climbing plants, the luxurious Virginian creeper with its wealth of purple bloom with white star-like flowers mingling between. Surrounding the hotel is a wide space studded with little marble-topped tables, dedicated to the convenience of the hungry and thirsty multitudes who flock thither up from the hot, dusty town on summer evenings, to breathe the fresh cool air which blows across the surface of the lake. Tables and chairs are set in all kinds of shady nooks and corners, and merry parties are sipping sherbet, lemonade, and ice-cream; even the democratic “lager beer” is served in foaming goblets, and while the band is playing people stroll to and fro or group under the trees eating ices, and not always confining themselves to the above harmless beverages. They enjoy themselves each after his own fashion, and it is generally midnight before the last train returns with its living freight towards the town.