The next day opened with one of those bright, blithe, and breezy mornings, which are only to be met with, and not often, on the old world's side of the ocean sea. The lark, twinkling in the clear blue sky, was singing her sweet ditties at heaven's gate; and the children, as they ran gamboling to school, swung their book-pocks with a flourish, and shouted as they leaped along, prompted by the universal gaiety. In strolling on the bank of the river, I passed a troop of ducks, leisurely sauntering to their accustomed pool; the drake, a bold and gaudy beau, looked slyly up at me as he passed, and said, as pleasantly as ever eyes could speak, “Is not this a delightful morning?”

Sometimes in America I have seen mornings almost as beautiful; but the air was not so lively, nor the birds so melodious, not even by the glad sea-side—never do the new inland settlements enjoy such an effervescence of cool airs and sparkling sounds.

There the breeze, as it comes from the surrounding lofty woods, is wersh, compared with the brisk freshness of the Scottish summer's free westlin wind—it is as the river's vapid water, compared to the living draught that dances from the spring. The singing-birds, few and far between, were only beginning to come to the environs of Judiville before my departure.

Making these similitudes as I strayed heedlessly from field to field—for I was early abroad, and had no purpose in my walk—my fancy began to draw comparisons between many other things in the two countries; and I thought, if I could meet with a real sensible woman, to be a friend and companion in old age, I, perhaps, could not do better than marry, and set myself down for enjoyment at home among old scenes. I had but few old friends remaining.