It was nine o’clock when the Winslow House suddenly revealed itself.  An open wood fire burned brightly in the brick fireplace, and in that altitude was a comfort indeed.  The ample walls seemed to fairly glow with welcome as we entered.  Some of us acknowledged that we were tired; others confessed to sleepiness; but one and all openly declared their hunger.  We had only to look at each other to madly accept the theory that mankind was created of dust; but we were not long in disposing of a large amount of surplus material.  And then the supper bell,—­welcome sound!  In view of a cherished reputation for veracity, it would not be wise to state the exact amount of sirloin steak and broiled salmon that disappeared from mortal vision that night at ten o’clock, or to tell how the strawberries and boiled lobster were stored safely away by the A.M.C.  We are sworn to secrecy, and although the supper hour was not passed over in silence then—­far from it! it must be now.

No one need suppose that after the experiences of the day the representative A.M.C’s. were fatigued sufficiently to make them willing to retire at half-past ten.  Besides, nightmare has its horrors, and there was that supper!

It is popularly supposed throughout the country, that Bostonians make an annual pilgrimage on the seventeenth of June to Bunker Hill, and devoutly ascend the monument on their hands and knees.  Although circumstances had prevented the A.M.C. party from discharging their debt of gratitude to their ancestors in the prescribed method, they could not forget that it was Bunker Hill Day.  One of our gallant and patriotic brethren had been carrying a mysterious bundle about and guarding it with jealous care all day.  Now, he produced and displayed—­sky-rockets!  They went off, soon after, with great success, surprising alike the stately mountain behind us and the little country girl who had come up from the valley below, to see the “Boston folks.”

The powerful telescopes were also set up and observations of the heavens occupied the astronomically inclined for an hour or two.  Thus the moons of Jupiter were made to contribute to the evening’s entertainment.  The piano, too, was not the instrument of torture usually found masquerading in hotel-parlors, and we finally gravitated towards it and made night hideous with our music and college songs until, to pharaphrase the poet, in to-day already walked to-morrow and it was twelve o’clock,

“My friends,” spoke up one of the gentlemen, “I am very sorry to say that we shall not be able to ascend Mount Kearsarge to-morrow.”

“Why?” exclaimed a dozen anxious voices.

“Because,” was the impressive answer, “it is to-day!”

In the laugh which followed the party said good night and retired.