Screened From The World.

Argegno.

Domaso And The River Adda.

Among The Trees.

A Home For Feathered Warblers.

The Haunt Of The Nightingale.

Evening On Lake Como.

The lover of the Larian lake who wishes to portray its numberless attractions lays down at last his brush or pencil in despair. How is it possible to convey an adequate notion of so sweet and wonderful a realm? To try to do so is like analyzing love. The reasons for one's admiration seem self-evident. We feel inclined to merely point to it with rapture, and exclaim : "Behold it! Is it not divine?"

Yet, if requested seriously to explain his ardor, one might specifically mention certain qualities which make this daughter of the Alps appear to him the Queen of lakes. And, first, it is companionable; a lake to live with upon terms of friendliness; neither too large for intimate acquaintance, nor yet so small and shallow as to prove insipid. Its three divisions are like rivers, whose enchanting shores are always visible, yet far enough apart to keep intact that zone of fine reserve essential to abiding friendship. One learns to know its waterways, as a Venetian knows his Grand Canal; yet who can ever thoroughly explore the mysteries of these solemn mountains, or those stately palaces? It is not what we know, however, but what we want to know that usually makes us happiest; and in a place whose memories embrace millenniums there is so much to learn!

Foliage And Faun.

Lake Como is a storied lake, - a lovely garden, in which bloom the fadeless flowers of antiquity, exhaling the mysterious perfume of a vanished world. The spirit of old Rome still haunts it in the music of its classic tongue. One sails its waters everywhere companioned by the Past. At every turn one feels within his heart the thrill which centuries of history inspire. It has an afterglow of legend and mythology, like that which burns upon its mountains when the sun has sunk behind the western heights. Nor does its scenic beauty wane with time. Its wavelets chant the same soft monody that Pliny heard with pleasure eighteen centuries ago. Still through the morning hours steals the northern breeze; and still toward sunset blows the "Breva" to the Alps, as when it filled the snowy sails of thousands who have gone. Yet in its steadfast changelessness Lake Como offers infinite variety. The robes of color which its mountains wear, - and even the wondrous blues and greens that stain its jeweled depths-are never quite the same. In summer, evening after evening, as the sun descends, the furrowed face of Monte Grigna is illumined by a light unequaled even in the Dolomites - at first, a wraith-like pink which deepens slowly to a royal purple, and finally passes through a tender hue of ashes-of-roses to a violet shroud. Or, should the time be winter, there will often fall upon its snow-fields a supernal rosiness, so unsubstantial in its transient tinge, that Grigna, gleaming gloriously in the darkening sky, seems a celestial mountain of mirage. Lake Como also is a place for happy solitude, serenity, and rest. Of course, on those still isolated in the active present, such features have no more effect than music falling on a deaf man's ears. Nor can it be expected that they should appeal to many in this age, when leisure seems synonymous with laziness, and speed with progress. One must concede, too, that there is a time for all things. A life of contemplation, for example, is not for the young. They must first earn their right to it. But what a precious boon it is, or ought to be, to those who, having reached the summit, look down upon the peaceful plains extending toward the setting sun! To such Lake Como is a paradise, - a place where silence is a solace, and dreamful revery a rapture; a spot to which the heart, when absent, fondly turns, as to a longed-for home, so much does it contain for every sympathetic soul to transmute into spiritual wealth. Those who have spent a few days only on its shores are prompt to give to some one point the palm for perfect beauty and attractiveness. But in proportion as one lingers here, discovering daily unexpected charms, the less is one disposed to make comparisons, preferring to apply to the whole Larian lake the fine old saying of the Moslem : He who goes forth, not knowing whither he goes, goes always to God's gate.

A Storied Garden By A Storied Lake.

The Queen Of Lakes.

Companioned By The Past.

Monte Grigna, From The Tremezzina.

Where Silence Is A Solace, And Dreamful Revery A Rapture.

Age And Industry.