My sole employment ’t is, and scrupulous care,
          To place my gains beyond the reach of tides,
      Each smoother pebble, and each shell more rare,
          Which ocean kindly to my hand confides.

      I have but few companions on the shore,
          They scorn the strand who sail upon the sea,
      Yet oft I think the ocean they’ve sailed o’er
          Is deeper known upon the strand to me.

      The middle sea contains no crimson dulse,
          Its deeper waves cast up no pearls to view,
      Along the shore my hand is on its pulse,
          And I converse with many a shipwrecked crew.

The small houses which were scattered along the river at intervals of a mile or more were commonly out of sight to us, but sometimes, when we rowed near the shore, we heard the peevish note of a hen, or some slight domestic sound, which betrayed them.  The lock-men’s houses were particularly well placed, retired, and high, always at falls or rapids, and commanding the pleasantest reaches of the river,—­for it is generally wider and more lake-like just above a fall,—­and there they wait for boats.  These humble dwellings, homely and sincere, in which a hearth was still the essential part, were more pleasing to our eyes than palaces or castles would have been.  In the noon of these days, as we have said, we occasionally climbed the banks and approached these houses, to get a glass of water and make acquaintance with their inhabitants.  High in the leafy bank, surrounded commonly by a small patch of corn and beans, squashes and melons, with sometimes a graceful hop-yard on one side, and some running vine over the windows, they appeared like beehives set to gather honey for a summer.  I have not read of any Arcadian life which surpasses the actual luxury and serenity of these New England dwellings.  For the outward gilding, at least, the age is golden enough.  As you approach the sunny doorway, awakening the echoes by your steps, still no sound from these barracks of repose, and you fear that the gentlest knock may seem rude to the Oriental dreamers.  The door is opened, perchance, by some Yankee-Hindoo woman, whose small-voiced but sincere hospitality, out of the bottomless depths of a quiet nature, has travelled quite round to the opposite side, and fears only to obtrude its kindness.  You step over the white-scoured floor to the bright “dresser” lightly, as if afraid to disturb the devotions of the household,—­for Oriental dynasties appear to have passed away since the dinner-table was last spread here,—­and thence to the frequented curb, where you see your long-forgotten, unshaven face at the bottom, in juxtaposition with new-made butter and the trout in the well.  “Perhaps you would like some molasses and ginger,” suggests the faint noon voice.  Sometimes there sits the brother who follows the sea, their representative man; who knows only how far it is to the nearest port,