that one scarce knows where to begin,——the faint, spicy smell of cedar-wood which perfumes the warm air through the entire kingdom; the twitter of small bird voices, sweeter but not so loud as our sparrows at home, in the dawning; the lifting of palm branches knotted with clusters of scarlet poppies in the nave of the great cathedral on Palm Sunday, as the priest's hands were uplifted, in blessed remembrance of the entrance of Christ into Jerusalem; the novelty of waking morning after morning to the delicious certainty of bright skies and warm air, as if some clear-eyed, silver-tongued angel were calling the weather record, instead of the tricksy-sprite that presides over New England. And yet I am more convinced than ever of the superiority of our own climate, impish as it often is, for all purposes of progress and advancement. Weak human nature needs the impulse of reaction: it needs sting of cold to spur toward effort. The warm kisses of this southern air would relax the energy of Alaric the Goth. You might transplant a model Vermont household, where the mother rises before dawn, and has hot doughnuts every morning for breakfast; where the children dress by candle-
