wrought an unwholesome greenness on the side of the veranda. In summer
he became invisible, but still exercised a familiar influence over the
locality. He planted little stitches in the small of the back, sought
out old aches and weak joints, and sportively punched the tenants of the
Swiss Cottage under the ribs. He inveigled little children to play
with him, but his plays generally ended in scarlet fever, diphtheria,
whooping-cough, and measles. He sometimes followed strong men about
until they sickened suddenly and took to their beds. But he kept the
green-plants in good order, and was very fond of verdure, bestowing
it even upon lath and plaster and soulless stone. He was generally
invisible, as I have said; but some time after I had moved, I saw him
one morning from the hill stretching his gray wings over the valley,
like some fabulous vampire, who had spent the night sucking the
wholesome juices of the sleepers below, and was sluggish from the
effects of his repast. It was then that I recognized him as Malaria,
and knew his abode to be the dread Valley of the shadow of
Miasma,--miscalled the Happy Valley!

On week days there was a pleasant melody of boiler-making from the
foundries, and the gas works in the vicinity sometimes lent a mild
perfume to the breeze. Our street was usually quiet, however,--a
footfall being sufficient to draw the inhabitants to their front
windows, and to oblige an incautious trespasser to run the gauntlet of
batteries of blue and black eyes on either side of the way. A carriage
passing through it communicated a singular thrill to the floors,
and caused the china on the dining-table to rattle. Although we were
comparatively free from the prevailing winds, wandering gusts sometimes
got bewildered and strayed unconsciously into our street, and finding
an unencumbered field, incontinently set up a shriek of joy, and went
gleefully to work on the clothes-lines and chimney-pots, and had a good