This year was pleasanter still. I do not know if the Chappaqua people are less patriotic than other citizens of the Union, but our nerves were only disturbed by the occasional popping of a fire-cracker in the garden of our neighbor, the train-master over the way; and when we strayed off to the Glen after dinner, we were as free from disturbing noise as though our country had not been born ninety-seven years ago. But although noisy demonstrations do not seem the fashion here (perhaps owing to the predominance of Quakers in the neighborhood), the dormant enthusiasm of the people for the Fourth was aroused at sundown, when a mass meeting was held at the tavern, or "Chappaqua Hotel" as it is grandly styled, and lengthy and energetic speeches were delivered. From our piazza we could hear the orators' voices ascending to a very high key as they warmed with their topic, and quite congratulated ourselves that we were not obliged to be of the audience. After dark there was a small display of Roman candles and sky-rockets; and so ended the glorious Fourth. _July 6_. I have again dreamed away an entire morning upon the piazza of the house in the woods--to me the stillest, sweetest spot in the world. I have described this dear old house and its romantic surroundings again and again since I have been here this summer. I can scarcely turn over half a dozen leaves of my journal without finding some allusion to it; but it is a subject possessing such fascination for me that I must again revert to it. I like to pass a quiet hour upon the steps of the piazza, or upon the large moss-grown boulder in front of the house where Ida, Raphael, and Gabrielle have all played; and while my fingers are busily employed with some fanciful design wrought with gold thread or emerald-green silk, "My thoughts wander on at their own sweet will,";