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Rh cottage led the way, and we followed with wary feet, guided by the sense of feeling rather than sight. As we mounted the deep-worn, winding steps, hugging closely the circular wall, at each story a red cross of dull fire-light seemed to be hung up before us as a guidepost to the dark and narrow way. Ascending a step or two, we found it was a slit in the tower for the arrow- men of the olden time, which was now filled with the illumination of the outside world. Winding around several times in the spiral ascent, we caught several sudden peeps of the scenery through these cross-shaped arrow-ports. These stairway glances north, east, south, and west served to sharpen the appetite of our eyes for the grand panorama that burst upon us as we stepped out upon the parapet of the tower, My first thought was of Longfellow as I looked off into the splendid vista— that he might stand on that tower

"At midnight, As the clocks were striking the hour."

If one furnace glowing "redder than the moon behind the old church tower of East Cambridge, as he stood on Charles River Bridge, so impressed his muse, to what inspiration would it have been moved by this sight? I hope he may see it before he dies as we saw it on that night. Some poet,