Zadoc Town.
A LEGEND OF DOSORIS.
By J. T. Irving.
Not far from the great throbbing city of New-York, and on the borders of a beautifully indented bay, called Hempstead Harbor, there stood about half-a-century since, a little sleepy town, named Mosquito Cove, which, being very materially protected from invasion by its name, was a kind of terra incognita to the rest of the world. In its immediate neighborhood were the villages of Wolver Hollow, Cedar Swamp, Duck Pond, Buckram, and Matinicock—all sturdy towns of great repute among their own inhabitants, and of strong tenacity of name; for, although Mosquito Cove in after-times became Glen Cove, the others still vaunted their ancient titles with vain-glorious obstinacy. Not far from Mosquito Cove was a retired road, about a mile in length, in some parts running through open woodland, and in others so completely embowered in trees, that twilight reigned there even at mid-day. There was a dreamy stillness about the place, which was apt to conjure up odd fancies in the mind of the loiterer, and he might have fancied himself in some old abbey, as he looked among the columned tree-trunks and the green arches overhead, until startled from his reverie by the shrill cry of the blue jay, or the workmanlike tap of the wood-pecker, as he scrambled around a tree-trunk. Here and there a ray of sunlight, straggling through the overhanging branches, or the matted grape-vines which clambered over them, would stream across the road, or lie in golden flecks upon the dead leaves which strewed the ground.
