639. Young Green Peas.—Young Green Peas! Do not those words sound pleasant to the ear, dearest? I fancy that by merely raising my eyes from the paper on which I am now writing, I shall see all our garden in buds and blossom; it not only seems to invigorate the sensitive part of one’s appetite, but works upon the mind to that point that you may actually fancy you are breathing in a glowing atmosphere, and that the pearly dew is gracefully descending in small globules from heaven, to fix their sparkling eyes on the pinky bloom of myriads of roses. But, alas! how soon this charming illusion has disappeared since I have left for a moment the sight of my paper to give a peep through the garden window, where I perceive that though to-day is the 17th of April, the serious and uncheerful Father Winter has once more monopolized those delightful and variegated nuances of Nature, by laying out his universal snowy tablecloth over this for the present ephemeral vision which the inviting words green peas had produced upon my senses; no doubt the effect of a good fire in my parlor, where I am now sitting, has had a great influence upon me respecting the summery temperature; but as a few weeks longer will realize my wishes, I shall here content myself by giving you the receipt how they ought to be cooked when you can get them.