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spreading buckeyes and California laurels, the fragrant bay, stood in groups all around the house; and between two gnarled tree trunks, in the fragrant shade, I saw a hammock swinging temptingly. There was a world of romance and dreamy remembrances of other days and tropic climes in the sight, and—shall I say it?—the cherished daughter of the house, she of the soft rippling hair, and great brown eyes, sat near the hammock, in the shade, with an open book before her. To see how it would seem to swing in a hammock in the shade once more, I stretched myself therein, and, to complete the reproduction of my dream of the tropics, drew out a bunch of fragrant cigarritas,—genuine Havanas, from the factory of "the Widow of Garcia,"—rolled one, lighted it, and engaged in conversation with my fair young friend. I found her highly educated, refined, accomplished, a glorious conversationalist, entertaining, and companionable. The smoke of that cigarrita, and another, and another, and another, went curling up in blue transparent wreaths, and floated lazily away. The sunlight filtered through the leaves in rippling streams of golden glory, and the soft autumn breeze fanned my cheek and played caressingly with the locks upon my forehead, grey and harsh no more, but curly and raven-hued again, "in my mind's eye, Horatio." The view down the valley, between hills on one side clad in deepest green, on the other in brightest gold, to the great Canada del Raymundo and the high, forest-crowned mountains of Santa Clara, enveloped in, and glorified by the soft blue haze of the September morning,