LOVE lightens labor, and crowns Care with rosy garlands which beautify her rugged and repellant features. But when those whose presence makes labor easy are absent, Care is more likely to become a hard taskmaster. Our house being thus left unto us desolate, for a few days, we rebel, and have run away. Seated all alone in one of those cozy little rooms in the “palace-cars,” on the banks of the Hudson, we will try for once how it feels to be free from care, and give ourselves up to the full enjoyment of the position. How beautiful is the scenery through which we are passing! Each one thinks his own native land, his own mountains and rivers, the finest in the world. This feeling often grows into a ludicrous weakness; but we are confident that our noble Hudson must be acknowledged by all as ranking among the first. “Where will you find in foreign land So sweet a spot, so bold a strand?” In spring-time, when every bush and tree is tipped with delicate green, from the banks of the river to the highest point that overlooks it, we call it more lovely than at any other season of the year. But in summer, when the grass is just ready for the scythe, and blossoms of fruit hang from every bough, we say this surpasses the spring. In the early fall, the orchards scattered all along the river-side, laden with the ripening fruit, in each variety of green, red, gold, or russet, and the woods on either side brilliant with every shade of color, add another charm to the wondrous beauty of the scenery. And now, in this later autumn, as we see the “Leaves around us falling, Dry and withered, to the ground,”-- the lights and shadows on the mountains, the golden hues exchanged for deeper russet, the dark red of the Ampelopsis mingling with the rich color of the evergreens that cover the banks,--all caught by the flashing river, and thrown back in broken and fantastic reflection,--call for increasing admiration; and mid-winter, when the ground is white with snow, and the trees are strung with diamonds, will only furnish stronger cords to hold us steadfast to our allegiance. There is not “half a kiss to choose” between the seasons on the banks of our glorious Hudson. We love it always and in all its varied changes. And this _is_ rest for the weary! How beautifully quiet the pretty villages, nested in among the mountains or scattered along the banks, appear! Is it possible that sickness or sorrow, heartaches or envyings, fierce passions or corroding cares, can find a harbor near this tranquil river? It must be so, no doubt; but as we fly quickly past, and cannot see it, what is it all to us? Why trouble ourselves with the thought of sorrows which we can neither alleviate nor prevent?