his presence was quite palpable; he sapped the roots of the trees, he gurgled under the kitchen floor, he wrought an unwholesome greenness on the side of the veranda.  In summer he became invisible, but still exercised a familiar influence over the locality.  He planted little stitches in the small of the back, sought out old aches and weak joints, and sportively punched the tenants of the Swiss Cottage under the ribs.  He inveigled little children to play with him, but his plays generally ended in scarlet fever, diphtheria, whooping-cough, and measles.  He sometimes followed strong men about until they sickened suddenly and took to their beds.  But he kept the green-plants in good order, and was very fond of verdure, bestowing it even upon lath and plaster and soulless stone.  He was generally invisible, as I have said; but some time after I had moved, I saw him one morning from the hill stretching his gray wings over the valley, like some fabulous vampire, who had spent the night sucking the wholesome juices of the sleepers below, and was sluggish from the effects of his repast.  It was then that I recognized him as Malaria, and knew his abode to be the dread Valley of the shadow of Miasma,—­miscalled the Happy Valley!

On week days there was a pleasant melody of boiler-making from the foundries, and the gas works in the vicinity sometimes lent a mild perfume to the breeze.  Our street was usually quiet, however,—­a footfall being sufficient to draw the inhabitants to their front windows, and to oblige an incautious trespasser to run the gauntlet of batteries of blue and black eyes on either side of the way.  A carriage passing through it communicated a singular thrill to the floors, and caused the china on the dining-table to rattle.  Although we were comparatively free from the prevailing winds, wandering gusts sometimes got bewildered and strayed unconsciously into our street, and finding an unencumbered field, incontinently set up a shriek of joy, and went gleefully to work on the clothes-lines and chimney-pots, and had a good time generally until they were quite exhausted.  I have a very vivid picture in my memory of an organ-grinder who was at one time blown into the end of our street, and actually blown through it in spite of several ineffectual efforts to come to a stand before the different dwellings, but who was finally whirled out of the other extremity, still playing and vainly endeavoring to pursue his unhallowed calling.  But these were noteworthy exceptions to the calm and even tenor of our life.

There was contiguity but not much sociability in our neighborhood.  From my bedroom window I could plainly distinguish the peculiar kind of victuals spread on my neighbor’s dining-table; while, on the other hand, he obtained an equally uninterrupted view of the mysteries of my toilet.  Still, that “low vice, curiosity,” was regulated by certain laws, and a kind of rude chivalry invested our observation.  A pretty girl, whose bedroom window was the cynosure of neighboring eyes, was once brought under the focus of an opera-glass in the hands of one of our ingenuous youth; but this act met such prompt and universal condemnation, as an unmanly advantage, from the lips of married men and bachelors who didn’t own opera-glasses, that it was never repeated.