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 the jolly canoe upon the happy fishing-waters of Pelham Bay. The rich saloon-keeper, who drives his fast horse out of town to City Island of a Sunday; the man who scorches thither with his best girl upon the same blessed occasion, and the father of the family—eleven, to one horse, with lunch in paper bags—who similarly spends his day of rest, all know that the enchanting forest, held in bounds by a low stone wall, on the right, just after you cross Pelham bridge—Pelham bridge is falling down!—is the mile-thick screen to the private life of that great financier.

The house itself rose two hundred years ago, in the time of the first Dunbar, on the hill within the forest, and was paid for in the skins of the beaver. Anon, as it became loved of the family, it grew and put out wings and ball-rooms and halls, and became great. Around it are gardens of flowers and strawberries, lawns, and huge, single trees. The house is overrun with pipe-vines and roses. There is one wing to accommodate twenty