follow Fountain Avenue to Lime Avenue, and turn to the right on the latter. The Jackson lot, in which Dr. Holmes is buried, is at the curve in the avenue. A plain marble stone, of modest size and without ornamentation, marks the poet's grave. The inscription reads: —

A tall tree overshadows the lot.
      Near the grave of Longfellow, on Indian Ridge Path, is that of Francis Parkman. It has over it a broad, unpolished, gray granite stone, bearing only the name and dates. Near by on the same path is a tablet to the memory of John Lothrop Motley; but Mr. Motley was buried in England.
      One of the most beautiful sections of the cemetery is the western side, along which runs the appropriately named Vesper Avenue. The best time to visit it is the late afternoon, when the rays of the setting sun slant through the trees. All the noises of the busy world are hushed; and there is a sense of peace and seclusion which is tranquillizing to the mind. Between Vesper Avenue and the high, tree-sheltered fence which bounds this part of the cemetery there stretches a considerable area, lot beyond lot, without intersecting paths. There is no lack of variety or beauty in the memorial stones which mark the graves; and on the other hand there are no overshadowing and distracting monumental achievements. The memorials suggest taste and affection, not display. Here, far back under the evergreens, may be found the gray granite block, with polished sides, which marks the resting-place of Christopher Pearse Cranch, artist and poet, who was buried here in January, 1892, after nearly eighty years of life, the active portion of which was devoted to contemplation, study, and the two creative arts in which his genius found expression. In addition to name and dates, the stone bears this appropriate inscription: —

      Not far away, on Fir Avenue, is the plain gray granite stone which marks the grave of Jacob Abbott, born at Farmington, Maine, in 1819, long the teacher of a boys' school there, and author of the Rollo books. The Rollo books are very much out of date, and are mostly remembered as pointing an unfavorable contrast between the literary privileges of an earlier generation of youth and those of the youngsters of to-day. Yet I imagine that there must be not a few of the grown-up boys and girls of the generation to which Jacob Abbott ministered, who, when they turn over the gorgeous volumes prepared nowadays for the delectation of their children or grandchildren, heave a furtive sigh, as they recall the sound sense, the copious information, and the wholesome if somewhat obtrusive moral teaching which pervaded the observations of Rollo's father, and that extraordinarily shrewd and well-posted "hired man," Jonas. The children of an earlier day certainly had fewer books than those of to-day, but they were at least books which presented true and manly ideals; and Jacob Abbott should be remembered as the author of some of the most sagacious and helpful of them.
      The grave of James T. Fields, ideal publisher, friend and comrade of authors, and himself a charming figure in American literature, is on Elder Path. It is in the Little lot, which is surrounded by an iron fence. It is at the rear of the lot, and is marked by a low marble slab, lying on a base of granite. The inscription, in clear-cut letters, reads: "Here lies the body of James T. Fields. April, 1881. Rejoice Evermore." The grave is shaded by a fine old oak tree; and the western side of the path rises in ter-