THE lovely island of Rhode Island is indented with a number of ravines on either shore. The most beautiful of these is Lawton’s Valley—a deep cut between the hills, running a mile into the land, from the waters of Narragansett Bay. The entrance into the valley is so masked with trees, the descent into it is so steep, that it lies securely hidden from the world above. You suddenly find yourself in a wooded gorge, the trees rising high above it on either side, and a brook running along the base of the cliff, leaping over waterfalls as it goes down to the sea. When my father bought the place, a grist-mill with a great terrifying wooden wheel stood at the head of the largest waterfall. My father, to whom gardening was a delight, greatly improved the appearance of the valley. The mill was converted into a school-house containing also one or two chambers for the bestowal of masculine guests, when the house was full to over-flowing. There is a family legend that brother Harry, when a lad, once slept upon the grand piano, no other place being available! We were sometimes obliged to arise in the night and give up our rooms to make way for relatives arriving unexpectedly. Some sudden emergency brought our especially beloved Aunt Annie Mailliard and her family to us in this way—for Lawton’s Valley is six miles from the post and telegraph offices. Telegrams then cost three dollars to deliver, and frightened us badly! Aunt Annie was the very soul of hospitality, and did her full share of it by entertaining us all delightfully at her home in Bordentown, New Jersey. Uncle Sam once occupied the mill-chamber and reported in the morning that the perpetual tap of the hydraulic ram sounded like a constant knocking at the door, causing him to murmur in his sleep, “Come in! Come in!” We could not do without the ram, however, as it supplied the house with water. It was sad when an eel got into the pipe, or some other accident stopped the water-supply. The pump, whence we obtained our drinking-water, was of a pattern calculated to drive one to the wine-cup. You turned the handle round and round furiously, and after a long time a refreshing stream appeared, borne in some mysterious way on two endless parallel chains. Then, if you went on pumping like mad, you could fill the pail. But if you stopped for one single second a horrible gurgling sound informed you that the water had retreated to the bottom of the well! Then you had to begin all over again the treadmill task of bringing it up! It was supposed to be remarkably fresh and pure when it appeared—for evidently it had not lingered in any pipe, as no pipe existed.