“Contingent or executory remainders, whereby no present interest passes, are, where the estate in remainder is limited to—(how warm it is)—to take effect either to a dubious and—uncertain—person—or—upon—either to a dubious and uncertain person, or (conscience, how sleepy I am) upon a—a—dubious—and—uncertain—event—to take effect—either—estate in remainder—is—contingent or executory remainders whereby—no—” woods—birds—sunshine—moss—green leaves—crash—bless me, Sir William Blackstone, Knt., one of his majesty’s Justices of Common Pleas, flat upon his reverend face, (wig and all) shocking! Well, all I can do by way of apology, will be to raise the learned knight from his unbecoming posture, and—how tedious this law is! I really thought a moment ago I was in the woods; but, alas! I was only dozing. My office to-day appears very dull. That book-case, with its rows of Johnson’s, Cowen’s, and Wendell’s Reports, Chitty on Bills, Comyn on Contracts, Barbour’s Chancery Practice, et cetera—this desk piled with papers tied with red tape—these three or four yellow chairs—that spectral broom in its dark corner—and this spotted spider on my one window, industriously engaged in weaving a large wheel-like web over two of its upper panes—really I begin to be sick of them. I’ll see what is “going on” out of doors. What a golden day. The sky is of a rich, tender blue, with here and there a soft pearly cloud sleeping in its depths, like snow-flakes on a bed of violets. And the sunshine, what a rich, deep blue it has. I think I’ll take a walk. Those woods, out there beyond Fairchild’s pond, seem beckoning to me; and the village offers as little variety as my office. There are two or three idlers on Wiggins’ tavern stoop—a cow and three geese are feeding quietly in the green lane that runs to “our barn,” past my office—beside the barn stands my gig, clean and glittering, from the just suspended efforts of “Black Jake”—a couple of stage-drivers are tarring the wheels of one of the huge red coaches that run regularly between Bloomingburgh and Monticello—the captain is on his way to the “corner well,” for a pail of water—an old horse is grazing on the “green” near the court-house—and a “team” or two are standing by St. John’s store. Let me see—which way shall I go! up the turnpike, or down to the “Big Rock.” But, hey-day! here comes Mayfield in great haste. “Well, Mayfield, what’s in the wind now?” “I say, squire, how would you like a pic-nic at White Lake this afternoon?” “A pic-nic! hurrah! just the thing. Will the girls go?” “They are all crazy at the idea—that is, all that I’ve seen.” “Then let us speak to Lavigne, and Hull, and Murray, and Williams, and so on, and all bustle round and invite our ladies, and be off in an hour.” Away we both go, and in a short time the boys are all notified, the girls all invited, and the arrangements all made.