During the first year of my residence, the more leisurely to witness the coronation of Charlemagne (weather permitting, they crown him every sunrise and sunset), I chose me, on the hill-side bank near by, a royal lounge of turf—­a green velvet lounge, with long, moss-padded back; while at the head, strangely enough, there grew (but, I suppose, for heraldry) three tufts of blue violets in a field-argent of wild strawberries; and a trellis, with honeysuckle, I set for canopy.  Very majestical lounge, indeed.  So much so, that here, as with the reclining majesty of Denmark in his orchard, a sly ear-ache invaded me.  But, if damps abound at times in Westminster Abbey, because it is so old, why not within this monastery of mountains, which is older?

A piazza must be had.

The house was wide—­my fortune narrow; so that, to build a panoramic piazza, one round and round, it could not be—­although, indeed, considering the matter by rule and square, the carpenters, in the kindest way, were anxious to gratify my furthest wishes, at I’ve forgotten how much a foot.

Upon but one of the four sides would prudence grant me what I wanted.  Now, which side?

To the east, that long camp of the Hearth Stone Hills, fading far away towards Quito; and every fall, a small white flake of something peering suddenly, of a coolish morning, from the topmost cliff—­the season’s new-dropped lamb, its earliest fleece; and then the Christmas dawn, draping those dim highlands with red-barred plaids and tartans—­goodly sight from your piazza, that.  Goodly sight; but, to the north is Charlemagne—­can’t have the Hearth Stone Hills with Charlemagne.

Well, the south side.  Apple-trees are there.  Pleasant, of a balmy morning, in the month of May, to sit and see that orchard, white-budded, as for a bridal; and, in October, one green arsenal yard; such piles of ruddy shot.  Very fine, I grant; but, to the north is Charlemagne.

The west side, look.  An upland pasture, alleying away into a maple wood at top.  Sweet, in opening spring, to trace upon the hill-side, otherwise gray and bare—­to trace, I say, the oldest paths by their streaks of earliest green.  Sweet, indeed, I can’t deny; but, to the north is Charlemagne.

So Charlemagne, he carried it.  It was not long after 1848; and, somehow, about that time, all round the world, these kings, they had the casting vote, and voted for themselves.

No sooner was ground broken, than all the neighborhood, neighbor Dives, in particular, broke, too—­into a laugh.  Piazza to the north!  Winter piazza!  Wants, of winter midnights, to watch the Aurora Borealis, I suppose; hope he’s laid in good store of Polar muffs and mittens.

That was in the lion month of March.  Not forgotten are the blue noses of the carpenters, and how they scouted at the greenness of the cit, who would build his sole piazza to the north.  But March don’t last forever; patience, and August comes.  And then, in the cool elysium of my northern bower, I, Lazarus in Abraham’s bosom, cast down the hill a pitying glance on poor old Dives, tormented in the purgatory of his piazza to the south.