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40 only manages to support his own discomforts by witnessing the infinitely greater ones of his children. Past cool sweet fields, where the cows are taking their meals at their leisure—happy cows, who have no father to harry them!—past easy stiles and broad flat stones to which our bodies seriously incline; up hill and down dale, across fields and down lanes, with never a pause for breath or flower or fern, and so home again "in linked sweetness long drawn out."

Next to those scampers we hate drives. Papa has several conveyances in which he jeopardizes the lives of his family, and makes our "too fretful hair" rise from our heads. First in danger is a very high gig, in which he drives a powerful rakish chestnut, with a rolling eye, who invariably runs away twice or thrice whenever he goes out. In this, knowing her fears, he loves to take out mother, who has some respect for her own neck, seeing that it is the only one she is ever likely to possess, and by hook or by crook, she usually manages to get out of going. Now and then, however, she is fairly caught, and drives from the door with a backward look at her assembled flock, that has in it the solemnity of a dying farewell. Next in danger to the gig is a mail phaeton, drawn by a pair of fiery cobs, thoroughbreds, and matched to a hair, in which two of us girls are always made to sit, occupying ingloriously enough the seat intended for a man-servant. Many and many a time have we clung to each other with our breath gone, while the horses thundered on in their mad career, and the snapping of a rein or the smallest obstacle in the way would have probably sent us all to kingdom come. Providence, however, who apparently keeps special angels to watch over reckless people, has always brought us safely home, and will, I hope, continue to do so; for it is an ugly thought to be dashed into little bits on a heap of stones, with a horse's grinding hoofs hammering your face. Mother has a basket carriage with two fat grey ponies, which are so far beneath