Lina had exercised all of her art in preparing the birthday dinner, and as Ida gave her carte blanche in her most extravagant demands—­such as twenty pounds of beef for gravies, and an entire bottle of Madeira for the soup, the dinner was very elegant and satisfactory.  Lina would, I fancy, have been much aggrieved, had she known that her artistic dishes were supposed to have been sent up from Delmonico’s.

July 20.

A drive to Tarrytown to-day.  After two months of inland air, the change to the exhilarating salt breeze blowing up from the Hudson was very refreshing, and made us quite regret, during the few hours we spent there, that Chappaqua could not be occasionally transported to the seaside.

“I am especially fond,” said Ida, “of living by the sea, although I do not enjoy an ocean voyage; but a cottage at Newport is my ideal home for the summer.”

“Newport air,” said mamma, “would, I think, be too strong for me.  The most agreeable sea air that I ever experienced was upon the Isle of Wight.  There the climate was so mild as to be very beneficial to me.  But you must know as much or more than I do about the Isle of Wight air, for you spent several months there with your mother when last in Europe, did you not?”

“Yes, we spent a winter and spring at Ventnor,” said Ida; “that town, you know, is especially recommended to people with lung troubles, although I could never see that it did poor mamma much good.”

“Did you ever see, Aunt Esther,” inquired Gabrielle, “the poem that was addressed to Ida while she was at Ventnor?”

Mamma had not before heard of it; therefore, upon our return, Ida took it out of her portfolio, and showed it to us.  It was written by a New York editor and poet, and was, we all thought, very beautiful and appropriate.  As it was in MSS., Ida allowed me to copy it into my journal.

  A FAMILIAR IDYL.

  FOR IDA LILLIAN GREELEY.

  Dear friend!  If I could step to-day
    Upon your cosey English isle,
    Victoria’s chosen home erewhile,
  And hallowed by the Laureate’s lay;

  Though beauty breaks from every view,
    And one long splendor edge the shore,
    I should not pause an hour before
  I touched the terrace graced by you.

  For what’s a Queen’s or Poet’s worth? 
    The light that lies on land and sea
    Resplendent?  Dearer far to me
  The friendship which outweighs the earth.

  Should I not find you—­happy chance—­
    Just where your ivied cottage stands,
    Dreaming with hope of western lands,
  Or facing torn and tortured France?

  And you could tell of sunny days? 
    Of chalky cliffs and spreading downs;
    Nature is more than bustling towns,
  And country life than city ways.

  But hearing now a robin sing,
    I wonder if his English mate
    May not be hopping near your gate,
  A harbinger, with ours, of Spring.