And ever and anon came on the still air the soft, eternal pulsations of the distant sea,—sound mournfullest, most mysterious, of all the harpings of nature. It was the sea,—the deep, eternal sea,—the treacherous, soft, dreadful, inexplicable sea. OLDTOWN FOLKS. [Sidenote: The sunrise.] The next morning showed as brilliant a getting-up of gold and purple as ever belonged to the toilet of a morning. There was to be seen from Asphyxia’s bedroom window a brave sight, if there had been any eyes to enjoy it,—a range of rocky cliffs with little pin-feathers of black pine upon them, and behind them the sky all aflame with bars of massy light,—orange and crimson and burning gold,—and long bright rays, darting hither and thither, touched now the window of a farmhouse, which seemed to kindle and flash back a morning salutation; now they hit a tall, scarlet maple, now they pierced between clumps of pine, making their black edges flame with gold; and over all, in the brightening sky, stood the morning star, like a great, tremulous tear of light, just ready to fall on the darkened world. * * * * * [Sidenote: October in New England.] Nature in New England is, for the most part, a sharp, determined matron of the Miss Asphyxia school. She is shrewd, keen, relentless, energetic. She runs through the seasons a merciless express-train, on which you may jump if you can, at her hours, but which knocks you down remorselessly if you come in her way, and leaves you hopelessly behind if you are late. Only for a few brief weeks in the autumn does this grim, belligerent female condescend to be charming; but when she does set about it, the veriest Circe of enchanted isles could not do it better. Airs more dreamy, more hazy, more full of purple light and lustre, never lay over Cyprus or Capri, than those which each October overshadow the granite rocks and prickly chestnuts of New England. The trees seem to run no longer sap, but some strange liquid glow; the colors of the flowers flame up, from the cold, pallid delicacy of spring, into royal tints wrought of the very fire of the sun, and the hues of evening clouds. The humblest weed, which we trod under our foot, unnoticed, in summer, changes with the first frost into some colored marvel, and lifts itself up into a study for a painter, just as the touch of death or adversity strikes out in a rough nature traits of nobleness and delicacy before wholly undreamed of. THE CHIMNEY CORNER. [Sidenote: Gems.] Gems, in fact, are a species of mineral flowers; they are the blossoms of the dark, hard mine; and what they want in perfume, they make up in durability. THE MAYFLOWER. [Sidenote: Meditations of the oak.]