Rural Hours/Winter

by Susan Fenimore Cooper

WINTER.

December, Friday, 1st.—Again we hear strange rumors of the panther. The creature is now reported to have been in Oakdale, having crossed the valley from the Black Hills. We hear that a man went out of a farm-house, about dusk, to pick up chips from a pile of freshly-cut wood at no great distance, and while there, he saw among the wood a wild animal, the like of which he had never seen before, and which he believed to be a catamount; its eyes glared upon him, and it showed its teeth, with a hissing kind of noise. This man gave the alarm, and for several nights the animal was heard in that neighborhood; it was tracked to a swamp, where a party of men followed it, but although they heard its cries, and saw its tracks, the ground was so marshy, that they did not succeed in coming up with it. Such is the story from Oakdale. Strange as the tale seems, there is nothing absolutely incredible in it, for wild animals will occasionally stray to a great distance from their usual haunts. About fifteen years since, a bear was killed on the Mohawk, some thirty miles from us. And so late as five-and-forty years ago, there was an alarm about a panther in West Chester, only twenty or thirty miles from New York!

Numbers of these animals are still found in the State, particularly in the northern mountainous counties. They are also

occasionally seen to the southward among the Catskills, where they were formerly so numerous as to have given a name to the stream, and the mountains whence it flows. The Dutch called this creature “Het Cat,” or “Het Catlos," which, says Judge Benson, was “also their name for the domestic cat." Kater is the male; but in the Benson Memoir, the word is not spelt with the double a, Kaaterskill, as we frequently see it now-a-days, when few of us speak Dutch. Catskill, or Katerskill, however, would appear to be equally correct, and the last has the merit of greater peculiarity. The old Hollanders had very formidable ideas of these animals, which they believed at first to be lions, from their skins, and the representations of the Indians. Their color is tawny, or reddish gray. When young, they are spotted; but these marks are supposed to disappear when the animal sheds its hair for the first time. The tail is darker at the extremity; the ears are blackish without, fight within. The largest panther preserved among us is found in the Museum of Utica, and was killed by a hunter in Herkimer county; it measured eleven feet three inches in length. Their usual length is from seven to ten feet.^[1]

They are said generally to frequent ledges of rocks inaccessible to man, and called panther ledges by the hunters; but they will often wander far for food. They are decidedly nocturnal, and rarely move by daylight. They prey upon deer, and all the lesser quadrupeds. They seem rather shy of man in general, but are very capable of destroying him when aroused. An instance of a very fierce attack from a panther is given in the Penny Magazine; and a man was killed by a “catamount,” in this county, some fifty years ago. It is now more than forty years since any animal of the

kind has been heard of in our part of the country, until within these last few weeks. Probably, if this creature prove really to be a panther, it has strayed from the Catskills.

Saturday, 2d.—Very mild. Unusually dark at eight o'clock. High wind, with heavy, spring-like showers. About noon the sky cleared, and the afternoon was delightful, with a high southwest wind, and a bright sky. A high wind is very pleasant now and then, more especially where such are not common. This evening we enjoyed the breeze very much, as it flew rustling through the naked branches, tossing the evergreen limbs of old pines and hemlocks, and driving bright clouds rapidly across the heavens. Despite the colorless face of the country, everything looked cheerful, as though the earth were sailing on a prosperous voyage before a fresh, fair breeze.

The sun has nearly reached his journey's end. There is a low ridge sloping away into the valley, about half a mile to the south of us, over which he passes completely in his annual voyage. Every clear winter's evening there is a glowing sky beyond it, against which the old pines, with their dark and giant forms, look grandly, adding, as they do, perhaps, a hundred feet to the height. The sun has nearly cleared this point now, and as he turns northward immediately after passing over it, the height is called Sunset Hill in the village.

Monday, 4th.—Charming day. Light sprinkling of snow in the night; but it has already disappeared. The grass on the lawn is quite green again. A light fall of snow, without a hard frost, always brightens the grass, perhaps more even than a spring shower. It often snows here without freezing.

Tuesday, 5th.—Rainy day; but not at all cold.

^[2] Among the interesting birds of this part of the world, there are a number which, though not often seen in our State, are yet occasional visitors, or else resident here in very small numbers. The noble wild turkey, for instance, is still found in small parties in the wilds of Sullivan, Orange, and Rockland counties, and also farther westward, in Alleghany and Cattaraugus; formerly it was known in large flocks from Mexico to Canada.

The fine, peculiar, Pinnated Grouse, though rapidly disappearing, is still seen in very small parties in Orange county.

The Mocking-bird is found on Long Island and in Rockland county. This bird, indeed, is said to range from 25° south of the equator, to 44 north. They are rare in our State, however, though a few arrive in the lower counties toward the last of May.

The brilliant Cardinal Grosbeak, with his scarlet coat, breeds in our State, and is said to be found in a county adjoining our own.

The equally brilliant Scarlet Tanager, or black-winged red-bird, as it is familiarly called, is found in the lower counties, though not numerous.

The summer Red-bird, also, quite a tropical bird, is occasionally seen near New York; we once chanced to meet quite a flock of them on Long Island.

The Blue Grosbeak, and the Rose-breasted Grosbeak, both handsome birds, are also found in the State.

The Crossbills, again, are seen in our northern counties.

The Cuckoo of this part of the world is interesting from the associations connected with the cry of the same bird in Europe—and, indeed, in Asia also—it is everywhere in the Old World looked upon as a harbinger of spring. The oldest song in the English language, said to date as far back as 1250, has a refrain in honor of this bird:

“	Sumer is ycumen in;
	Lhude sing cuccu;
	Groweth sed, and bloweth med,
	And springeth the wde nu:
	Sing cuccu!
	Awe bleteth after lomb:
	Lhouth after calve cu;
	Merrie sing cuccu,
	Cuccu, cuccu!
	Wel singes thou cuccu,
	Ne swik thee nauer.”

The Chinese call it by much the same name as the Europeans. And so did the ancient Greeks. We have the bird, but it attracts with us comparatively little attention; the robins, and blue-birds, and song-sparrows, are much more thought of; they arrive earlier, and are more common. The American cuckoo is much better

behaved than his brother of the Old World; he has no naughty habits; he builds a nest of his own, and he is very faithful to his wife and children. Our cuckoos are of two kinds, the yellow-billed and the black-billed; both differ slightly from that of Europe. They arrive in May, and pass the summer with us. Their nests are said to be rather carelessly built, as though they had not thoroughly learned the art.

YELLOW-BILLED CUCKOO.
	G. P. Putnam, N. Y.	Endicott's Lith. N. Y.

It is singular, that while the cuckoo of this part of the world pairs and builds its own nest, like most of its tribe, we have another bird who has the careless, reckless habits of the European cuckoo. It is well known that our cow-pen black-bird lays her eggs in the nests of other birds; and it is remarked that she generally chooses the nest of those much smaller than herself, like the summer yellow-bird, the blue-bird, song-sparrow, among our nicest and best-behaved birds. One might almost fancy, that like some unhappy women who have trifled with their own characters, the cow-bird is anxious that her daughters should be better behaved than herself, for she is careful to choose them the best foster-mothers; happily, such a course has often succeeded with human mothers, but with the bird it seems to fail. There is no such thing as reformation among them.

Wednesday, 6th.—Mild rain again. We have a word or two more to say about our rare birds, or at least those which are less common than our every-day flocks. Among these are a number besides the cuckoo, in which we feel an interest, chiefly on account of their European associations.

Let us begin with the chattering Magpie—“la gazza Ladra”—whose naughty tricks, and noisy tongue, are well known to us by reputation at least. They are very rare indeed in this State, but

a few are occasionally seen near Niagara; strange ground, indeed, for such vapid, thoughtless birds. There is said to be a natural antipathy between the blue-jay and the magpie, just as two great human talkers are apt to dislike each other, and keep out of each other's way; these two birds, at least, are observed rarely to frequent the same region. The American magpie is more common west of the Mississippi, but even there it is much more rare than in Europe. It closely resembles that of Europe,

The Falcon is another bird of note, from its old feudal associations; and strange as it may appear, the Duck-hawk of this part of the world is no other than the full brother of the famous Peregrine Falcon of Europe. It is said to be only the older birds which wander about, and as they live to a great age, some of them have been noted travellers. In 1793, a hawk of this kind was caught at the Cape of Good Hope, with a collar bearing the date of 1610, and the name of King James of England; so that it must have been at least 183 years old, and have travelled thousands of miles. Another, belonging to Henri II. of France, flew away from Fontainebleau one day, and was caught at Malta, the next morning. The male bird is smaller and less powerful than the female, as frequently happens with birds of prey; it was called, on that account, a Tiercel,—a third,—and caught partridges and small birds. It was the larger female who pursued the hare, the kite, and the crane. These birds will not submit to be enslaved; they never breed in a domestic state, and the stock was replaced by taking new birds captive. Hawking is said to have been derived from Asia,—where it is still pursued, in Persia, and China.

Other kinds, besides the Peregrine Falcon, were trained for

sport; the Gyrfalcon, for instance, an extreme northern bird, taken in Iceland, whence they were sent to the King of Denmark; a thousand pounds were given for a “cast” of these hawks, in the reign of James the First. Mr. Nuttall says that occasionally a pair of Gyrfalcons are seen in the Northern States, but they are very rare. The Duck-hawk, or Peregrine Falcon, is chiefly found on the coast, where it makes great havoc among the wild ducks, and even attacks the wild geese. The Gyrfalcon is two feet long; the Peregrine Falcon of this country twenty inches, which is rather larger than that of Europe. We have also the Goshawk, another esteemed bird of sport, of the same tribe; it is rare here, and is larger than that of Europe. The Gyrfalcon and the Peregrine Falcon are birds that never touch carrion, feeding only on their own prey; these belonged to Falconry proper, which was considered the nobler branch of the sport. Among the birds used for Hawking, strictly speaking, were the Goshawk, the Sparrow-hawk, the Buzzard, and the Harpy.

The Cormorant is another bird of which we have all heard a great deal, without, perhaps, having a very clear idea regarding it. They are uncouth, aquatic birds, of the largest size—about three feet in length—very expert fishers and divers, and voracious feeders. In England, they formerly used them for fishing, and the Chinese still do so. They are found on our coast, though rather rare; a few breed in Boston Bay. The double-crested Cormorant is the most common on our coast.

The Pelican, again, is allied to the Cormorant, though distinguished from most other birds by their extraordinary pouch connected with the gullet. There are two kinds: the large White, and the Brown Pelican. They are scattered all over the world.

The White is the largest of all water-fowls, about six feet in length. They are common in the South of Europe, particularly on the Danube, and also throughout Judea, Egypt, &c., &c. They frequent alike the sea-shore and rivers. These birds were formerly common on the Hudson and the inland lakes of our own State, and it is quite probable they have been seen in these very waters of ours; but they have now entirely disappeared. They are rare everywhere in the Union, except in Louisiana and Missouri. They are partial to the eddies about waterfalls. It is said that they live to a great age. They are capable of carrying twelve quarts of water in their pouch! The Brown Pelican is still an occasional visitor on the sea-shore of Long Island; farther south, it is very common. It is a smaller bird than the White, measuring four feet in length.

Wild Swans are still found in the secluded northern lakes of this State, where they remain the whole year round. Large flocks, however, come from still farther north, and winter in the Chesapeake. They have a whistle, which distinguishes them from the mute species, which is much the most graceful. The Icelanders are very partial to the whistle of the wild swan, perhaps because they associate it with the spring; and Mr. Nuttall supposes that it was this note of theirs which led to the classic fancy of the song of the dying Swan. These birds are widely spread over Europe and America, though our own variety differs slightly from that of the Old World.

The Eider-Duck is another celebrated fowl with which we have a passing acquaintance in this State. In very severe winters, a few find their way from the northward, as far as the coast of Long Island. They breed from Maine, north. They are

handsome birds, with much white in their plumage, and are very gentle and familiar. Dr. De Kay thinks they might easily be domesticated in this part of the country. The female plucks the down from her own breast, for the purpose of making a soft nest for her young; but after she has laid a number of eggs, these and the down are both removed, the eggs being very palatable. The patient creature then re-lines her nest with the last down on her breast, and lays a few more eggs; again both down and eggs are taken by greedy man; the poor mother has now no more down to give, so the male bird steps forward, and the nest is lined a third time. Two or three eggs are then laid, and the poor creatures are permitted to raise these—not from any kindly feeling, but to lure them back to the same spot again the following year, for they like to haunt familiar ground. Their nests are made of sea-weed and moss; Mr. Audubon saw many of them in Labrador. When the young are hatched, the mother frequently carries them on her back to the water; and when they are once afloat, none of them return permanently to the land that season. The down is so very elastic, that a ball of it held in the hand will expand and fill a foot-covering for a large bed. It is always taken from the live birds, if possible, that from the dead bird being much less elastic; and for this reason, they are seldom killed.

There are still two or three birds of old European fame, or otherwise interesting, found occasionally in our neighborhood; to these we must give a word or two when we have leisure.

Wednesday, 6th.—Green and reddish leaves are yet hanging on the scarlet honeysuckles, the Greville and Scotch roses; and a few are also left on the little weeping-willow.

The locust-trees are, as usual, full of brown pods; one of the handsomest in the village, a fine tree in size and form, might be supposed in withered leaf at a little distance, every branch and twig being loaded with pods. A drawing, taken at this moment, would give the idea of a tree in leaf. What a luxuriant mass of flowers it must have borne last June! A good portion of these pods will remain on the tree all winter, for they fall very reluctantly; and occasionally these old rusty shreds of a past year are found among the fresh summer blossoms. They have certainly no beauty, and yet they are rather pleasing in winter, reminding one of the flowers the tree has borne. The pods of the Acacia, frequently called the Honey-locust, are handsome and very large, though the flower itself is insignificant: they are of a rich glossy brown, with a spiral, curling turn, and twelve or fifteen inches long; there are few on the tree, however, compared with the common locust, and they fall early. The birds do not seem to eat the seed in these pods, which is a pity; they would be a fine winter harvest for them about the villages.

The old brown chestnut-burs tipping the naked twigs here and there, the black shell of the hickory, also the open husk of the small beech-nut dotting the trees, the swinging balls of the sycamore, the scaly tufts on birch and alder, though dull and out of season, are also pleasing from association, and though claiming little beauty in themselves, vary the naked branches agreeably.

A flock of wild ducks flew over the village to the lake, the only birds we have seen for a fortnight.

Thursday, 7th.—Mild rain again, with dark, dull sky.

Friday, 8th.—Very mild, and cloudy, but without rain. Indeed, it is almost warm; people are complaining of lassitude, the

air quite oppressive, and thermometer at 64. The grass quite green again, in patches; cows feeding in some pastures.

Saturday, 9th.—Still same mild weather, with dark skies.

A large flock of tree-sparrows about the house this morning. These birds come from the far north to winter here; they are not so common with us, however, as the snow-bird and the chicadee. The little creatures were looking for seeds and insects among the bushes and on the ground, and they seemed to pick up gleanings here and there. Though constantly fluttering about among the honeysuckles, they passed the berries without tasting them; and often, when birds have been flitting about in autumn when the fruit of the honeysuckle looked bright and tempting, I have observed that it was left untouched. The birds do not like it. The blueberries of the Virginia creeper, on the contrary, are favorite food with many birds, though poisonous to man.

The tree-sparrow is one of the largest and handsomest of its tribe, its head being marked with a brighter bay than others. Upon its breast is a dark spot, as though it bore its escutcheon there. When it first arrives in November, it has a pleasant, low warble, and it may very possibly sing well in its summer haunts. But our sparrows generally are not musical birds ; the song-sparrow is the most marked exception.

This dull, cheerless winter day, while watching the sparrows searching for food among the bare and naked branches, and on the brown, cold earth, I was strongly impressed with the recollection that these little creatures were chosen by their Maker to teach us a most important lesson. The passage in the Holy Gospel in which they have a place is very remarkable, and is given to us by St. Matthew and St. Luke. The Evangelists tell us that

a great multitude of people were collected, and our blessed Lord was pleased to address his disciples in their hearing. A caution against hypocrisy was given, followed by a most solemn injunction to fear God, and not man.

“But I will forewarn you whom ye shall fear: Fear him which, after he hath killed, hath power to cast into hell; yea, I say unto you, Fear him. Are not five sparrows sold for two farthings? and not one of them is forgotten before God. But even the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear not, therefore, ye are of more value than many sparrows.” Such is the passage in the Gospel of St. Luke.

In the Gospel of St. Matthew the same incident is thus related:

“And fear not them which kill the body, but are not able to kill the soul, but rather fear him which is able to destroy both soul and body in hell. Are not two sparrows sold for one farthing? and one of them shall not fall to the ground without your Father. But the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear ye not, therefore, ye are of more value than many sparrows.”

What a sublime view does it give us of the providence of God, that not one of these little birds should fall to the ground unknown to the Almighty Creator, that each one of these little creatures, the humblest and most insignificant of their race, is heeded and remembered before God! This revelation of the direct nature of Divine Providence is, indeed, most precious and consoling; it is impossible to possess a stronger assurance of the mercy, and wisdom, and power of God, as exercised toward us, than is given in these words of our Redeemer; and there is no other passage on this subject in Holy Scripture so full and clear. It

is one of the most extravagant follies of man that he constantly avows opinions of the attributes of his Maker fashioned by his own miserable, puny faculties. As if it were possible that we should know aught of the Supreme Being beyond what He is pleased to reveal to His creatures; and as if it were not a most plain and rational duty to believe all that is revealed with our whole powers of mind and soul! Even sincere Christians, with the weakness and inconsistency of human nature, are too often partially guilty of the same folly; we are all too often disposed in practice, if not in theory, to measure the power, and wisdom, and justice, and mercy, and love of our God, by our own pitiful standard; and yet, meanwhile, the blessed light of the Gospel is shining in all its fullness upon us, revealing great truths connected with this most sacred subject, in the plainest words. Happy would it be for man were he always content to know his gracious God, only as he has made himself known to us, to reject every idea of His attributes which is not derived from Scripture, and to cling with every energy of soul and body to the holy truths of this nature vouchsafed to us in His word. This simple assurance of the fullness and directness of God's providence would, in that case, prove a most blessed source of comfort to every Christian heart, amid the trials and sorrows of life; but it is with this as with so many other instances, the boon is offered by God, but it is rejected or neglected by man. “The very hairs of your head are all numbered”—a stronger expression of tender watchfulness could not be framed in human language; it conveys an idea quite beyond the reach of all human power. And such were the words of the Deity to sinful man; it was the holy voice of the Redeemer which gave them utterance. It is true, this

language was addressed to the first chosen disciples, men far holier than we; but all have been redeemed by the precious death of Christ, and every human soul, therefore, may justly feel itself to be “of more value than many sparrows;” not one is “forgotten before God.” We all, the most humble and insignificant, may find comfort in the passage. It is remarkable that this revelation of the directness of the providence of God, the oversight and care bestowed by the Almighty on the meanest of his creatures, and his tender watchfulness over his servants, should have been given when foretelling the grievous trials and persecutions which awaited the chosen disciples of the Lord. The same God who feeds the young ravens that cry unto him, sees also the falling sparrow; he sees the evil, but permits it; when sorrows and troubles come, they must be necessary in his sight for some good and wise purpose—it may be that the evil we mourn is needed for some immediate personal end which we are too blind to perceive, or it may be required to strengthen, in the sight of men and angels, some one of those great truths by which a universe is governed. In either case, well does it become the sinful child of man to suffer meekly; alas, that it should be so difficult to “let patience have her perfect work!” Let us at least always repel the false, unfaithful notion that we are ever, under the darkest circumstances, left to the blind dealings of chance, or fate, that we are ever forgotten before our God!

It is very possible that the little sparrows of Judea were flitting about in the presence of our Lord at the moment those gracious words were spoken: “Not a sparrow falleth to the ground without your Father,—fear not, therefore, ye are of more value than many sparrows.” These birds were sold for less than one

cent of our money each; the Roman coin mentioned in the original being in value one cent and a half of our own copper, and two sparrows were sold for one of these, or, as St. Luke tells us, five sparrows were sold for two farthings. Sparrows are supposed to have been used in the temple for the ceremony of purifying from leprosy, and were sold for that purpose. This rite was a singular one: two birds were required; one was killed with peculiar circumstances, the living bird dipped in its blood, and the blood then sprinkled seven times on the leper, after which the priest “shall pronounce him clean, shall let the living bird loose into the open field.” The flying away of the live bird, with the blood upon him, is supposed to be a type of the Atonement, like the scape-goat driven into the wilderness with the curse for sin on his head. Singular and obscure as some of these old Jewish rites appear to the happier Christian, nothing can be more clear than that each became of high import and dignity from the moment it was appointed by Divine authority; and if no common sparrow falls to the ground without our Father in heaven, ceremonies expressly ordained by Him, in which the humblest birds were employed as a means, must have been of grave importance, and blessed effect to all who faithfully kept them. It has been supposed, that after healing the leper, as recorded by St. Matthew, chapter viii., our Lord was pleased to order the man he had miraculously cured, to fulfill this same ceremony, when he bid him “Go show thyself to the priest, and offer the gift commanded by Moses.”

The sparrows of this continent differ more or less from those of the Old World, although, as a common, humble bird, their character is very similar. The European sparrow is, at times,

mischievous and troublesome, differing in this respect from ours, which are all very harmless little creatures. With us they have no price; they are neither bought nor sold; their plumage, voice, and flesh, having little to recommend them to the dangerous favor of man. We have many varieties belonging to different seasons and situations; all varying from the Eastern bird of the same family. The plain little chipping-sparrows are good friends with us all, found through the summer about every garden in the country, the very tamest of our birds, running in the paths we tread ourselves, and scarcely moving out of our way, as we come and go. The song-sparrow, very like the chipping-bird in size and plumage, is one of the earliest of our singing-birds. We are all familiar with its pleasing note; it is the only one of its tribe that has a fine voice. Then there is the swamp-sparrow, which passes the summer along the water-courses of the Northern States, and winters on the rice plantations of the South. The Savannah, or coast-sparrow, again, is chiefly found near the sea-shore. It is a pretty bird, but unknown among our hills. The yellow-wing is a small species, with a faint note, said to be the least numerous of its family; this autumn, however, we saw a little flock flitting about for half an hour among the shrubbery. The field-sparrow is the smallest of all its tribe, and a migratory bird here; it lives more in the open fields, and less along fences and hedges, than its brethren. The bay-wing, or grass-bird, again, is only seen in our meadows in summer, though found through the winter near New York. All these varieties either linger in small parties in the lower counties during the cold weather, or proceed to the Southern States, whence they return to us in the spring. But there are four other species which come from the northward to winter

with us, and return to still cooler regions as the warm weather approaches. These are the white-throat, a pretty bird; the white-crowned sparrow, more rare; the fox-colored sparrow; and the tree-sparrow, like those we saw this morning. Thus at all seasons these little creatures are near to tell us of the direct and immediate care of Providence; they run about our doors as we come in and go out; they rise from their grassy nests in the open field; they sing to us from the thickets and bushes; we find them by the bank of the river; on the sea-shore; and as one party goes with the falling leaves of autumn, they are succeeded by others who perch among the naked branches, and remain through the cheerless winter. Each of these humble flocks as it crosses our path, whether in the storm or in the sunshine, may remind us of the same sublime truth, that they and we are ever under the care of our merciful Father in heaven, never forgotten before God.

Monday, 11th.—Very mild. A dull day closed with a cheering sunset; the clouds, in waving folds of gray, covered the whole heavens; but as the sun dropped low, he looked in upon us, and immediately the waves of vapor were all tinged with red, dark and rich beyond the pines of Sunset Hill, and paler, but still flushed, to the farthest point of the horizon.

Another little sparrow flew past us, as we were walking this afternoon.

Tuesday, 12th.—Mild, but cooler; frost last night. Long walk in the woods. Much green fern still in many places, although it is no longer erect. We have had only one fall of snow, and that a light one; but the fern is already lying on the ground, prostrate, as in spring. Adjoining these fresh leaves of the

different ferns, there are large tufts of the same kind completely dry and withered, though it is not easy to see why there should be this difference. Can it be the younger fronds which are more tenacious of life? Gathered a fine bunch of the scarlet berries, of the dragon-arum, as bright as in September. The ground-laurel is in flower-bud, and the buds are quite full. Many trees and plants are budding.

An old hemlock had fallen across the highway very near the same spot where another large tree fell also across the road, not long since. There are so many dead and decaying trees in our American woods, that, of a windy day, they often fall. Some persons are afraid to go in the forest when there is a high wind, but often as we walk there, we have never seen one fall.

Wednesday, 13th.—Lovely day; mild and cloudless. Walked on Mount ——. The lake very beautiful as we looked down upon it; clear light blue, encircled by the brown hills.

No birds. At this season one may often pass through the woods without seeing a feathered thing; and yet woodpeckers, blue-jays, and crows are there by the score, besides snow-birds, chicadees, sparrows, and winter-wrens, perhaps; but they do not seem to cross one's path. The larger birds are never active at this season, but the snow-bird and chicadee are full of life.

Thursday, 14th.—Mild, pleasant day. Again we hear news of the panther: a very respectable man, a farmer, living a mile or two from the village, on the lake shore, tells ——— that he was returning quite late at night from the village, when he was startled by hearing a wild sort of cry in the woods, above the road, sounding as though it came from Rock Hill; he thought at first it was a woman crying in a wailing kind of way, and was on

the point of turning back and following the sound, but the cry was repeated several times, and he thought, after all, it was not a woman's voice. A few days later, as his little boys were crossing a piece of woods on the top of Cliff Hill, they heard a strange cry at no great distance, sounding something like a woman's voice; they answered the voice, when the sound was repeated several times in a strange way, which disturbed the little fellows so effectually, that they turned back and ran nearly a mile, until they reached the farm-house, very much frightened. Both the farmer and the boys, in this case, are a very quiet, steady set, not at all likely to invent a tale of the kind. It really looks as if the creature were in the neighborhood, strange as it may seem. It so happened, that only a day or two before the boys heard the cry in the Cliff woods, we were crossing that very ground with one of them, never dreaming of a panther being near us; if it were really there at the time, one would have liked to have caught a glimpse of it—just near enough to decide the point, and to boast for the rest of one's days of having met a real live panther in our own woods! Bad as their reputation is, they seldom, I believe, attack human beings unless exasperated; and of course we should have been satisfied with a distant and brief interview; for no doubt we should have been very heartily frightened.

Friday, 15th.—We return to the birds of more than common interest.

The Bald Eagle can scarcely be called a rare bird with us, for in some parts of the country it is very common; at other points, however, it is not often seen. We Americans all have a national interest in this powerful bird as the emblem of our country, and

yet few among us know much about him. He is frequently supposed to be peculiar to this continent: according to ornithologists, such is not the case; he is found in the northern parts of the Old Hemisphere also. He is much more rare, however, in Europe than in the Western World, and what is singular, he is chiefly confined there to extreme northern regions, while it is rather the temperate and warmer climates of this continent which he affects. Only two instances are known where this eagle has visited Central Europe; in America, they are found from Labrador to the Gulf of Mexico, but they are most common within the milder latitudes of that space.

The Bald Eagles are more numerous along our coast than in the interior; their fondness for fish draws them to the sea-shore. Their singular habit of exacting tribute from the Osprey is well known, and is a spectacle very frequently seen along the coast, where the Fish-Hawks are most common. The Eagle sits watching upon a naked limb of some tall tree near the water, while the Fish-Hawk is soaring at the height of a hundred feet or more above the waves in quest of prey; as soon as the Hawk has dived and arisen with a fish in its talons, then the Eagle leaves his perch and pursues the luckless Osprey, with threats so well understood, that the fish is dropped, the Eagle sinks, and seizing it as it falls, carries it off to his haunts in the woods, where he makes his meal. In New York, the Bald Eagle is most common along the Sound, on Long Island, and also about Niagara; but he is no stranger to any part of the country. They are frequently seen soaring over the Highlands near West Point. Now and then one is observed hovering over our own little lake. Their fisherman, the Osprey, also visits the interior, following our larger rivers to their

head-waters; but here, one of their nests is a rarity, while on the coast, Mr. Wilson once counted twenty within a mile.

The Bald Eagles build their nest in a tall tree, perhaps a pine, or farther south, it may be a cypress. They first lay a sort of floor of large sticks several feet in length; over this are placed sods of earth, hay, moss, sedge-grass, pine-tops, &c., &c. This eyry continues to be used as long as the tree lasts, and when their old homestead has been destroyed, they will often take possession of an adjoining tree, rather than abandon the neighborhood. They resort to their nest constantly as a dwelling, at all times, repairing it when necessary, until the pile rises to the height of five or six feet, with a breadth of four or five feet. The mother-bird begins to lay in February; and it is said that while the first brood is half fledged, she lays other eggs, which the young birds help to hatch by their warmth. Whether this is really true or not, one cannot say.

BALD EAGLE.
	G. P. Putnam, N. Y.	Endicott's Lith. N. Y.

Besides fish, these Eagles prey upon ducks, geese, gulls, and all kinds of water-fowls; at times, they feed upon lambs, pigs, fawns, and even deer. Mr. Audubon gives a very spirited account of their hunting the wild swan, the male and female in company. Two instances are recorded in which infants have been seized by these powerful birds, one occurring in Georgia, and given by Mr. Nuttall, the other happening in New Jersey, and related by Mr. Wilson. In the first instance, the child is said to have been carried five miles, to the eyry of the bird; it was immediately followed, but the poor creature was already dead. In the last case, the child was seized as it was playing by its mother's side, while she was weeding in her garden; a sudden rushing sound, and a scream from the child, alarmed the woman: she

started up, and saw her baby thrown down and dragged several feet by a Bald Eagle, when happily the infant's dress gave way, and the bird rose, carrying off a fragment of it in his talons. The length of these birds is three feet; extent of wings, seven feet. The female, as usual with birds of prey, is the largest and most daring. They are not at all bald, as their name would imply, but, in fact, hoary-headed: the plumage of the whole head and neck being white; the tail and wing-coverts are also white; the rest of the plumage is chiefly brown; the legs and bill are of a golden yellow.

There is another gigantic fishing Eagle, called the Washington Eagle, a very rare bird, described by Mr. Audubon as decidedly larger; its length is three feet seven inches; extent of wings, ten feet two inches. They build upon the rocks along the Upper Mississippi.

Long may the Bald Eagle continue to be the national emblem of a vigorous and a united people, as long as the bird soars over the broad land! It must prove a dark hour for the country when either wing is maimed. There are always, in every community, in public as in private life, those who are not afraid to assume a character which the wise man has declared “an abomination” in the sight of their God; yes, this character “doth the Lord hate”—“he that soweth discord among brethren.”

If, in the subject of a monarchy, loyalty to the sovereign be a just and a generous sentiment,—and most assuredly it is so,—still more noble in character is the nature of that loyalty which has for object a sacred bond, uniting in one family the beating hearts, the active spirits, the intelligent minds of millions of men; brethren in blood and in faith!

Shall such a bond be severed by distempered passions? Let us be on our guard, lest the evil be brought about by small antagonist parties whose sympathies are not loyal to the nation at large. History may teach us that small parties are often very dangerous, and nowhere more so than in republics.

*******

It is well known that we have in the southern parts of the country a member of the Parrot tribe, the Carolina Parakeet. It is a handsome bird, and interesting from being the only one of its family met with in a temperate climate of the Northern Hemisphere. They are found in great numbers as far north as Virginia, on the Atlantic coast; beyond the Alleghanies, they spread themselves much farther to the northward, being frequent on the banks of the Ohio, and in the neighborhood of St. Louis. They are even found along the Illinois, nearly as far north as the shores of Lake Michigan. They fly in flocks, noisy and restless, like all their brethren; their coloring is green and orange, with a shade of red about the head. In the Southern States their flesh is eaten. Greatly to the astonishment of the good people of Albany, a large flock of these birds appeared in their neighborhood in the year 1795. It is a well-authenticated fact, that a flock of Parakeets were observed some twenty-five miles to the northward of Albany during that year ; so that we have a right to number them among our rare visitors. They have been repeatedly seen in the valley of the Juniata, in Pennsylvania. Birds are frequently carried about against their will by gales of wind; the Stormy Petrels, for instance, thoroughly aquatic as they are, have been found, occasionally, far inland. And in the same way we must

account for the visit of the Parakeets to the worthy Knickerbockers about Albany.

But among all the birds which appear from time to time within our borders, there is not one which, in its day, has attracted so much attention and curiosity as the Ibis—the sacred Ibis of Egypt. There were two birds of this family worshipped by the Egyptians—the white, the most sacred, and the black. For a long time, the learned were greatly puzzled to identify these birds; but at length the question was fully settled by MM. Cuvier and Savigny; and we now find that the Ibis of both kinds, instead of being peculiar to Egypt, extends far over the world. There are two old paintings discovered among the ruins of Herculaneum, representing Egyptian sacrifices of importance, and in each several Ibises are introduced close to the altar and the priest. The reverence in which the Ibis was held in Egypt seems, indeed, to have been carried as far as possible: it was declared pre-eminently sacred; its worship, unlike that of other divinities among them, was not local, but extended throughout Egypt; the priests declared that if the Gods were to take a mortal form, it would be under that of the Ibis that they would appear; the water in the temple was only considered fit for religious purposes after an Ibis had drunk of it. These birds were nurtured in the temples, and it was death for a man to kill one. Even their dead bodies, as we all know, were embalmed by the thousand. The motive for this adoration was said to be the great service rendered to Egypt by these birds, who were supposed to devour certain winged serpents, and prevent their devastating the country. M. Charles Bonaparte supposes that this fable arose from the fact that the Ibis appeared with the favorable winds which preceded the rains

and inundation of the Nile. So much for the fables which conferred such high honors upon the Ibis.

In reality, these birds, so far from being confined to Egypt, are found in various parts of the world. In the Southern States of the Union, particularly in Florida and Louisiana, they are quite numerous; and they are found occasionally as far north as the shores of Long Island. They are said to fly in large flocks, and feed upon cray-fish and small fry. Ornithologists place them between the Curlew and the Stork. It is said that sometimes, during a gale or a thunder-storm, large flocks of them are seen in movement, turning and wheeling in the air, when their brilliant white plumage produces a very fine effect amid the dark clouds. The White Ibis is twenty-three inches in length, and thirty-seven across the wings.

The Black Ibis was considered as confined to particular spots in Egypt. In reality, however, this bird is much the greater wanderer of the two; it is found in Europe, Asia, Africa, Australia, and America. It is said to be more rare on the coast of this State than the White Ibis. Their annual migration over Europe is described by the Prince of Canino as extending usually from the S. W. to the N. E.; they pass from Barbary to Corsica, and through Italy, toward the Caspian Sea, where they breed. In the north and west of Europe they are rare, though for several seasons a flock has bred in the Baltic. In Egypt it remains from October to March, and, no longer sacred, they are sold there in the markets. The Glossy, or Black Ibis, is twenty-three inches in length.

These Ibises are said to be all dull, stupid birds, quite harmless, and not timid. They live in flocks, but pair for life. They have

an expert way of tossing up the shell-fish, worms, &c., &c., upon which they feed, and catching the object in their throat as it falls. Their stomachs have greater strength than their bills, for they swallow large shells which they cannot break. The nest is built on high trees; the female alone sits on her two or three eggs, but the male feeds her, and the young also, the last requiring care a long time. Their gait is said to be dignified; large parties often moving together in regular order. Their flight is heavy, but they soar high, and remain long on the wing. The first observed on our coast was shot at Great Egg Harbor, in May, 1817; since then others have been killed from time to time, as far north as Boston. So much for this noted bird, worshipped by that “wisdom of the Egyptians” in which Moses was instructed, and which he rejected for that purer faith which each of us should bless God for having preserved among men, in spite of the weak and wavering apostasy to which our fallen race is prone.

It is rather singular that we should have within the limits of this northern province three noted objects of Egyptian adoration, at least in each instance we have a closely-allied species: the Ibis, both white and black, among their sacred birds; the Nelumbo, akin to the Lotus, among their sacred plants; and the humble, ball-rolling beetle, closely allied to their Scarabæus.

Saturday, 16th.—Very mild, but half-cloudy day. We have had rather more dark skies this last week or two than is usual with us. The mornings have often been gray and lowering until eight o'clock, though we have never known candles used here after sunrise, even during the darkest days.

It is a busy time with the farmers, who are killing their pork, which makes a great deal of work within doors also;

housekeepers have many things to look after just now. The position of an American housewife is rarely, indeed, a sinecure, but in the country there is always a much larger share of responsibility attached to the office than in towns. In rural life, baking and churning, the pastry and cakes, curing hams, and preparing sausages, pickling and preserving, laying down eggs and butter, and even making the coarser soaps and candles of the family, are included in her department. In towns all these things are found for cash or credit, at the grocers, or bakers, or confectioners. Of course, when the pork is brought in, there is a great deal to be done: some pork is to be corned; hams, and jowls, and bacon are to be looked after; sausage meat, head cheese, and soused pigs' feet, must be prepared.

Salt and smoked meats of all kinds are very much used in this country, more so, probably, than in any part of Europe at the present day. This sort of food made a large portion of the household stock in former ages; four or five hundred years ago fresh meat was only eaten at certain seasons. Beef, and mutton, and even geese, were regularly killed for salting in the autumn, and laid by as winter provisions. At present the amount of salted and smoked food eaten in Europe is much smaller.

With us, particularly in the country, few meals are made without some dish of this kind, either breakfast, dinner, or tea: smoked fish, or broiled or cold ham, for instance, in the morning; ham, or bacon, or tongue, or corned beef, or it may be corned pork, for dinner; and chipped smoked beef, or tongue, for tea. Towards spring, in many villages and hamlets, it is not easy to procure a supply of fresh meat; and salt provisions of all kinds become not only the morceau de résistance, but also the hors

d'œuvre. It is talked of, in village parlance, as the ham-and-egg season, because at this time butchers are not to be depended on. A few years since such was the case here, but at present we are better supplied. As for country taverns, it may be doubted if they ever set a table without ham, broiled or fried, with eggs also, if possible. During an excursion of ten days, the summer before last, in the southern counties, we had but one meal without ham, and frequently it was the only meat on table. The Wandering Jew would have fared badly in this part of the world, especially if he moved out of sight of the railroads.

There are said to be more hogs in the United States than in all the different countries of Europe together, so that a traveller ought not to be surprised when he meets these animals in the handsomest streets of our largest towns, as he may do any day. Probably we should be a more healthy nation if we were to eat beef and mutton, where we now eat pork.

It is not improbable that this taste for salt and smoked food generally, may be owing to the early colonial habits, when the supply of fresh meats, with the exception of game, must have been small; and the habit once formed, may have become hereditary, as it were.

Monday, 18th, 7 o'clock, A. M.—Lovely, soft morning. The valley lies cool and brown in the dawning light, a beautiful sky hanging over it, with delicate, rosy, sun-rise clouds floating here and there amid the limpid blue. It will be an hour yet before the sun comes over the hill; at this season its rays scarcely touch the village roofs before eight, leaving them in shadow again a little after four.

How beautiful are the larger pines which crown the eastern hill at

this moment! These noble trees always look grandly against the morning and evening sky; the hills stand so near us on either side, and the pines are of such a height and size, that we see them very clearly, their limbs and foliage drawn in dark relief against the glowing sky.

Tuesday, 19th.—Most charming day; all but too warm. Thermometer 66. Long walk over the hills. The farmers say winter never comes until the streams are full; they have been very low all through the autumn, but now they are filled to the brim. The river shows more than usual, winding through the leafless valley. This is in truth a protracted Indian summer; mild airs, with soft, hazy sunshine. Dandelions are in full flower by the road-side; cows and sheep are feeding in the pastures. They are ploughing on many farms; the young wheat-fields are beautiful in vivid verdure.

In the woods we found many green things; all the mosses and little evergreen plants are beautifully fresh; many of the feather mosses are in flower. The pipsissiwa and ground-laurel are in bud; the last has its buds full-sized, and the calyx opening to show the tips of the flowers, but these are only faintly touched with pink on the edge; unfolding them, we found the petals still green within. It is very possible that some violets may be in flower here and there, although we did not see any; but the autumn before last violets were gathered here the first days in December, though generally, this month is wholly flowerless in our neighborhood.

We passed a cart standing in the woods, well loaded with Christmas greens, for our parish church. Pine and hemlock are the branches commonly used among us for the purpose; the hemlock,

with, its flexible twigs, and the grayish reverse of its foliage, produces a very pretty effect. We contributed a basket-full of ground-pine, both the erect and running kinds, with some glittering club-moss, and glossy pipsissiwa, for our share; it is not every year that we can procure these more delicate plants, as the snow is often too deep to find them. Neither the holly, the cedar, the arbor vitæ, the cypress, or the laurel, grows in our immediate neighborhood, so that we are limited to the pine and hemlock. These two trees, however, when their branches are interwoven are very well adapted for Christmas wreaths.

Wednesday, 20th.—Cooler; the air more chilly. Walked in the afternoon. Gray gnats were still dancing here and there. Found a merry party of chicadees in the oak by the mill bridge; their cheerful note falls pleasantly on the ear at this silent season.

Thursday, 21st.—Mild, but snowing a httle; we may yet have sleighing for Christmas.

It is a very busy time within doors just now; various important labors connected with Christmas cheer are going on. Cake-jars are filling up with crullers, flat, brown, and crisp; with doughnuts, dark, full, and round; with raisined olecokes, with spicy, New-Year cookies, all cakes belonging to the season. Waffles, soft and hard, make their appearance on the tea-tables; mince-pies, with their heavy freight of rich materials, are getting under way; and cranberries are preparing for tarts. Ducks and turkeys are fattening in the poultry-yards; inquiries are heard after any grouse or woodcock that have been shot on the hills; after any salmon-trout, or bass, that may have been caught in the lake. Calves'-head soup and calves'-foot jellies are under consideration; and fresh oysters are arriving in the village from the

coast by scores of kegs; in short, the activity in the rural housekeepers's department is now at its height. But at this busy season, during these Christmas preparations, the female Vatel is supported and cheered by a sort of holiday feeling which pervades the whole house; there is a dawn of the kindliness and good-will belonging to Christmas perceptible in kitchen and pantry; the eggs are beaten more briskly, the sugar and butter are stirred more readily, the mince-meat is chopped more heartily than on any other occasion during the year. A pleasant reflection this, and one upon which it is sometimes necessary to fall back for consolation when the pies are a little burnt in the baking, and the turkey proves rather tough after boiling.

But the larder, though an important item, is very far from being the only object of attention in these Christmas tasks. Greens are put up in some houses. Santa Claus must also be looked after. His pouch and pack must be well filled for the little people. Hoary heads, wise and gray, are just now considering the merits of this or that nursery-book; weighing sugar-plums and candies; examining puppets and toys. Dolls are being dressed by the score, not only your wax and paste-board beauties, such as may be seen in every toy-shop window, but also other members of the doll family which are wholly of domestic manufacture, such as those huge babies of cotton and linen, almost as large as the live baby in the cradle, with pretty painted faces, and soft, supple limbs. These “rag-babies,” as they are sometimes called in the nursery—Moppets, as we are instructed to name them by great dictionaries—are always pets with little mammas; no other dolls are loved so dearly and so constantly as these. Look at some motherly little creature as she pets and fondles this her chief

treasure; note her agony as that teasing young rogue of an elder brother threatens death and torture to her darling, and you will soon discover that, of all her numerous family, shapeless, clumsy Moppet has the largest place in that warm little heart of hers. Next to these great cloth babies, black Dinahs are the greatest pets in the nursery. It is surprising what a fancy children have for a black face; nay, it is more than a fancy, it is a very positive affection. Whether it is that the negroes, with the cheerful kindliness which usually marks their good-hearted race, have an art of their own in winning little hearts or not, one cannot say; but it is well known that a black nurse is almost always a favorite. These Dinahs of black morocco are, therefore, cherished among the doll family as representatives of the dark face children love so well; they are supposed to be taking very good care of those white linen babies in the little cradle.

But it is not only older fingers which are at work; many little slips of womankind are now busily engaged upon some nice piece of work for papas and mammas, grandfathers and grandmothers. Many are the deep mysteries concerning such matters cleverly concealed just now under an innocent expression—mysteries which Christmas-eve will unfold. And now, as the day draws on apace, all sorts of work, bags, purses, slippers, mittens, what-nots, &c., &c., are getting a more finished look every hour. The work-table is getting more and more crowded. Things wear a very different aspect from the languid, listless, make-believe appearance of summer labors of the same kind; all are in earnest now, great and small, old and young; there is not a moment to spare, Christmas is at hand! And the thought that it is so,

“	. . . . . . . . sets a keener edge
	On female industry; the threaded steel
	Flies swiftly, and unfelt the task proceeds.”

Friday, 22d.—It is snowing decidedly. We shall doubtless have sleighing for the holidays.

Saturday, 23d.—Winter in its true colors at last; a bright, fine day, with a foot of snow lying on the earth. Last night the thermometer fell to 8° above zero, and this morning a narrow border of ice appeared along the lake shore.

Sleighs are out for the first time this winter; and, as usual, the good people enjoy the first sleighing extremely. Merry bells are jingling through the village streets; cutters and sleighs with gay parties dashing rapidly about.

It is well for Santa Claus that we have snow. If we may believe Mr. Moore, who has seen him nearer than most people, he travels in a miniature sleigh “with eight tiny rein-deer:”

“	Now Dasher, now Dancer! Now Prancer, now Vixen!
	On Cupid, on Cornet! On Donner and Blixen!
	Now dash away, dash away, dash away all!
	As leaves, that before the wild hurricane fly.
	When they meet with an obstacle mount to the sky;
	So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
	With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too;
	And then in a twinkling I heard on the roof,
	The pawing and prancing of each little hoof.”

The domain of Santa Claus has very much extended itself since his earliest visits to the island of Manhattan, when he first alighted, more than two hundred years ago, on the peaked roofs of New Amsterdam, and made his way down the ample chimneys of those

days. In this part of the country he is very well known. One has regular applications on Christmas-eve for permission to hang up stockings about the chimney for Santa Claus to fill; Sunday-scholars and other little folk come stocking in hand as a matter of course, and occasionally grown persons follow their example. It seems at first rather singular that Santa Claus should especially favor stockings and chimneys; one cannot easily account for the fancy; but a notion of this sort has spread far and wide. In France the children put their shoes on the hearth Christmas-eve, with the hope that during the night they will be filled with sugar-plums by the “Bon-Homme Noel,” who is evidently a twin brother of Santa Claus. But these are matters in which experience sets reason at defiance. The children will all tell you that Santa Claus comes down the chimney—in this part of the world he will even squeeze through a stove-pipe—and that he fills stockings with good things, always looking after that particular part of their wardrobe, though why he should do so remains a mystery yet unfathomed. It seems a silly notion, perhaps. If you belong to the wondrous-wise school, you will probably despise him for it; a sensible man, you will say, would put the sugar plums in the child's pocket, or leave them with the parents. No doubt of it; but Santa Claus is not a sensible man; he is a funny, jolly little old Dutchman, and he and the children understand each other perfectly well. Some of us believe that he comes down the chimney expressly to make wise people open their eyes at the absurdity of the thing, and fills stockings because you would never dream of doing so yourself; and there cannot be a doubt that the little people had much rather receive their toys and sugar-plums by the way of the chimney than through the door,

and that they find it far more delightful to pull treasure after treasure from the stocking than to take them in a matter-of-fact way from the hands of their respected parents.

Some people use harsh language toward our old friend; they call him an impostor, and even accuse him of being, under false colors, an enemy of the little folk; they say he misleads them. Not he, indeed; he is just as far from desiring to deceive his little friends as Mother Goose, or the historian of Jack the Giant-killer, and little Red Riding Hood; such an idea never enters his head. Moreover, if he tried it, he would fail. Children are not so easily deceived as you think for; in all simple matters, all that comes within their own sphere of judgment, the little creatures have a remarkable instinct which guides them with the nicest tact in deciding upon the true and the false. They know, for instance, who loves them, and who only makes believe; they understand fully that this friend must be respected and obeyed, while that one can be trifled with all day long; they feel they can trust A——— with the whole confidence of their loving little hearts, and B——— is an individual of whom they have a very indifferent opinion, though they do not choose, perhaps, to express it in words. As for Santa Claus, they understand him well enough; they feel his kindness and they respect his reproofs, for these are always made with justice; they know he is a very great friend of children, and chief counsellor of papas and mammas; they are perfectly sure he will come to-night, and that their stockings will be filled by him. Tom is a little afraid he will bring a new birch twig with him, and Bessie has some fears of a great bitter pill to cure her of crying; still, they would not have him stay away for the world, and they go to sleep to dream of him. But at this very

moment, if you were to step into the nursery and tell Tom and Bessie that Santa Claus is in the next room, and wishes to see them, they would not believe you. If you were to repeat the assertion, it is probable that Bessie would reprove you for telling a story, and Tom might go so far as to enter into a logical disquisition on the subject, informing you that nobody ever sees Santa Claus, for the reason that there is no such person; who ever heard of an old man's driving up the side of a house, over the roof, and down the chimney! Such things can't be done; he knows it very well. Nevertheless, next year Tom and Bessie will be just as eager as ever for a visit from Santa Claus, and they will continue to think his sugar-plums the sweetest, and his toys the most delightful of all that are given to them, until they have quite done with toys and sugar-plums—with those of the nursery, at least. Happy will it be for the little people if they never have a worse enemy, a worse friend either, among their acquaintances, whether real or fictitious. In fact, there is no more danger that the children should believe in the positive existence of Santa Claus, than there is a probability of their believing the Christmas-tree to grow out of the tea-table. We should be careful, however, to make them understand every Christmas, that the good things they now receive as children are intended to remind them of far better gifts bestowed on them and on us.

But most of the wisest people in the land know little more about Santa Claus than the children. There is a sort of vague, moonlight mystery still surrounding the real identity of the old worthy. Most of us are satisfied with the authority of pure unalloyed tradition going back to the burghers of New Amsterdam, more especially now that we have the portrait by Mr. Weir,

and the verses of Professor Moore, as confirmation of nursery lore. It is only here and there that one finds a ray of light falling upon something definite. We are told, for instance, that there was many hundred years ago, in the age of Constantine, a saintly Bishop by the name of Nicholas, at Patara, in Asia Minor, renowned for his piety and charity. In the course of time, some strange legends sprang up concerning him; among other acts of mercy, he was supposed to have restored to life two lads who had been murdered by their treacherous host, and it was probably owing to this tradition that he was considered the especial friend of children. When the Dominican fraternity arose, about 1200, they selected him as their patron saint. He was also—and is, indeed, to this day—held in great honor by the Greek Church in Russia. He was considered as the especial patron of scholars, virgins, and seamen. Possibly, it was through some connection with this last class that he acquired such influence in the nurseries of Holland. Among that nautical race, the patron saint of sea-faring men must have been often invoked before the Reformation, by the wives and children of those who were far away on the stormy seas of Africa and the Indies. The festival of St. Nicholas fell on the 6th of December, but a short time before Christmas. It seems that the Dutch Reformed Church engaged in a revision of the Calendar, at the time of the Reformation, by a regular court, examining the case of each individual canonized by the Church of Rome, something in the way of the usual proceedings at a canonization by that Church. The claims of the individual to the honors of a saint were advanced on one hand, and opposed on the other. It is said that wherever they have given a decision, it has always been against the claimant. But in

a number of instances they have left the case still open to investigation to the present hour, and among other cases of this kind stands that of Sanctus Klaas, or St. Nicholas. In the mean time, until the question should be finally settled, his anniversary was to be kept in Holland, and the children, in the little hymn they used to sing in his honor, were permitted to address him as “goedt heyligh man”—good holy man. It appears that it was not so much at Christmas, as on the eve of his own festival, that he was supposed to drive his wagon over the roofs, and down the chimneys, to fill little people's stockings. For these facts, our authority is the Benson Memoir. A number of years since, it may be thirty or forty, Judge Benson, so well known to the old New Yorkers as the highest authority upon all Dutch chapters, had a quantity of regular “cookies” made, and the little hymn said by the children in honor of St. Nicholas, printed in Dutch and sent a supply of each as a Christmas present to the children of his particular friends. But though we have heard of this hymn, we have never yet been able to meet with it. Probably it is still in existence, among old papers in some garret or storeroom.

Strange indeed has been the two-fold metamorphosis undergone by the pious, ancient Bishop of Patara. We have every reason to believe that there once lived a saintly man of that name and charitable character, but, as in many other cases, the wonders told of him by the monkish legends are too incredible to be received upon the evidence which accompanies them. Then later, in a day of revolutions, we find every claim disputed, and the pious, Asiatic bishop appears before us no longer a bishop, no longer an Asiatic, no longer connected with the ancient world,

but a sturdy, kindly, jolly old burgher of Amsterdam, half Dutchman, half “spook.” The legend-makers of the cloister on one hand, the nurses and gossips of Dutch nurseries, black and white, on the other, have made strange work of it. It would be difficult to persuade the little people now that “Santa Claus” ever had a real existence; and yet, perhaps, we ought to tell them that there was once a saintly man of that name, who did many such good deeds as all Christians are commanded to do, works of love and mercy. At present they can only fancy Santa Claus as Mr. Moore has seen him, in those pleasant, funny verses, which are so highly relished in our nurseries:

“	His eyes, how they twinkled! His dimples, how merry!
	His cheeks were like roses—his nose like a cherry;
	His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
	And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow.
	The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
	And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
	He had a broad face, and a little, round belly,
	That shook, when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly;
	He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf;
	And I laughed, when I saw him, in spite of myself.”

Monday, 25th, Christmas-day.—There is a saying in the village that it always rains here on Christmas; and, as if to prove it true, there is a heavy mist hanging upon the hills this morning, with rain falling at intervals in the valley. But even under a cloudy sky, Christmas must always be a happy, cheerful day; the bright fires, the fresh and fragrant greens, the friendly gifts, and words of good-will, the “Merry Christmas” smiles on most faces one meets, give a warm glow to the day, in spite of a dull sky, and make up an humble accompaniment for the exalted

associations of the festival, as it is celebrated in solemn, public worship, and kept by the hearts of believing Christians.

The festival is very generally remembered now in this country, though more as a social than a religious holiday, by all those who are opposed to such observances on principle. In large towns it is almost universally kept. In the villages, however, but few shops are closed, and only one or two of the half dozen places of worship are opened for service. Still, everybody recollects that it is Christmas; presents are made in all families; the children go from house to house wishing Merry Christmas; and probably few who call themselves Christians allow the day to pass without giving a thought to the sacred event it commemorates, as they wish their friends a “Merry Christmas.”

Merry Christmas! Some people have found fault with the phrase, they consider the epithet of merry as ill-judged, when applied to this great holiday; but that is a notion that can only arise from a false conception of its meaning; to quarrel with it, they must suppose it to convey the idea of disorder, and riot, and folly. It is, however, in fact, a good Saxon adjective, used by some of the oldest and best writers in the language, as a synonyme for sweet, pleasant, cheerful, gladsome; Chaucer and others apply it in this sense. Hundreds of years ago our English forefathers talked affectionately of their native land as “merrie Englande,” and we cannot suppose that they intended to give the idea of a country of confusion and riot, but claimed for their island-home a cheerful character. Again, the poets sung the “merrie month of May,” a delightful, joyous season, assuredly; but who shall dare to see disorder and folly in the harmony and sweetness of that beautiful period of the year?

It is true that this good and hearty word of olden days has been partially abused in later times, as men have discovered

“	How mirth may into folly glide.
	And folly into sin.”

But if we were to reject everything good and desirable in itself because it has been abused by mankind, we should soon discover that we had deprived ourselves of every blessing, not only temporal, but spiritual also. If we were to give up all terms that have been perverted from their true and natural meaning, we should soon condemn ourselves to a silence more absolute than that of the followers of Latrappe: only too many of the best words in every language have suffered grievously from bad usage. There is an old adjective of the same date as that under discussion, which comes, perhaps, nearer than any other to giving a true idea of merry in the sense we understand it, and that is blithe; and having been less tarnished by common uses, it still bears a charming meaning. But few among us, when looking at this subject, will be disposed to dispute the authority of our own translation of the Holy Bible, which is generally admitted to be a model of good, sound English; now the words merry and mirth occur quite frequently in the pages of the sacred book, and the following are some instances of the application they have received. Merry is applied to feasting in Genesis, when relating the joyful meeting between Joseph and his brethren in Egypt; mirth is applied to laughter in the book of Proverbs; it is opposed to mourning in Ecclesiastes, and it is connected with laughter and pleasure in the same book; in Isaiah it is connected with thanksgiving, with joy, with music; the sigh of the merry-hearted

is given as a token of general affliction. In Jeremiah the term occurs repeatedly as applied to rejoicing: “the voice of mirth, and the voice of gladness, the voice of the bride, and the voice of the bridegroom.” And again, in another chapter, in a most beautiful passage, giving a prophetic picture of a land in utter desolation: “I will take from them the voice of mirth, and the voice of gladness; the voice of the bridegroom, and the voice of the bride; the sound of the millstones, and the light of the candle.” None but a very gloomy, or a very presumptuous mind, would take upon itself to say, that in either of these instances, anything unbecoming, or evil, is implied by the words mirth and merry; to most persons the impression would be of an opposite character; seemly gayety and cheerfulness would be the idea suggested. In the translation of the Psalms as contained in the Prayer Book, the word merry is used on one occasion in a very exalted connection; the 47th Psalm is held to have been written either on the removal of the ark to Mount Zion, by King David, or a few years later, on its final progress from the Tabernacle to the Temple of Solomon. The fifth verse is thus translated: “God is gone up with a merry noise, and the Lord with the sound of the trump.” Here we have the word applied to religious joy upon a signal occasion. It is also remarkable that this Psalm is one of those appointed for public worship on Ascension-Day, from the application of this same verse to the Ascension of our Lord; and shall we, then, object to employing the same word in connection with the Nativity? In the translation of the Holy Bible, made a century later, the same verse is rendered as follows: “God is gone up with a shout; the Lord with the sound of a trumpet.”

But as if expressly to decide the question, we find in the prophet Hosea the word mirth directly applied to religious festivals. When rebuking the idolatry of the Jews, and proclaiming the punishments which should in consequence fall upon them, the prophet, speaking in the name of the Almighty, declares that the land shall be deprived of her festivals:

“I will also cause all her mirth to cease; her feast-days, her new moons, and her Sabbaths, and all her solemn feasts.”

Here we have the very word in dispute applied to the great religious festivals of the Jewish Church. The learned theologians who translated the Hebrew Scriptures, held it a fitting term in connection with festivals of divine appointment, and coming from the lips of an inspired prophet; those holy days are spoken of as a blessing, as the mirth of the land, which the idolatrous tribes no longer deserved, and of which they were to be temporarily deprived, as a punishment for their sins. After this passage, it were worse than idle to cherish scruples against using the word in the same sense ourselves. Let us, then, with every return of the festival, gladly and heartily wish our neighbor, all fellow-Christians, the whole broad world, a right “Merry Christmas.”

It is, in good sooth, Merry Christmas! The day is bright with blessings; all its hours are beaming with good and kindly feelings, with true and holy joys. Probably a fuller, purer incense of prayer and praise ascends from earth to Heaven, upon this great festival, than at other periods of the year. Thousands and ten thousands of knees are bowed in adoration, from the remotest coasts of heathen Asia, to the farthest isles of the sea; thousands and ten thousands of voices are raised among the rejoicing nations, repeating the sublime hymn first heard upon the hallowed

hills of Bethlehem, and borne onward from that hour through the lapse of ages, unbroken, unceasing, by every successive generation of the redeemed:

“Glory to God in the highest; and on earth, peace, good-will to men.”

It is Merry Christmas, indeed! Every beautiful festival we hold in religious reverence, is connected with this greater festival; they all, laden with blessings and graces, follow in the train of this holy day. Ay, it is the rising of the Sun of Righteousness on Christmas morn, which has even softened the Jewish Sabbath, and given us, with every successive week, the milder, purer light of the Lord's day. "What better joy have we, indeed, from the first to the last hour of every passing year of life, which does not flow from the event we this day bear in fervent, thankful remembrance? Every mercy of the past dates from the advent we joyfully celebrate to-day. Every hope for the future looks to the same great mystery. Every prayer offered to Heaven, becomes an acceptable prayer only through faith in the same ineffable Name. Every exalted anticipation of final release from sin and sorrow, of attainment to the unspeakable joys of purity and wisdom, obedience and peace, is utterly groundless, save as it is connected with the Nativity hymned this day by the Christain Church Catholic.

It is, in truth, Merry Christmas! Peace on earth, good-will to man, sang the heavenly host; and, as though even the solemn recollection of the holy words were accompanied by a blessing, we find that the sweet charities, the better feelings of the heart, become more active on this holy day. There is nothing more striking in the daily course of the world, than the recklessness

with which men trifle with the precious boon of peace, the very sunshine of life; perhaps there is no one folly which so generally, so frequently, and so lamentably reminds us that we are indeed “very far gone from original righteousness.” But, on this holy day, when we especially celebrate the Nativity of the Prince of Peace, the solemn import of that high event, the perfect meekness, the pure humility, the unfailing fountains of patience and charity revealed to us in His sacred character, are not so easily forgotten as at other times; our cold hearts are touched, our impatient spirits are calmed, our evil passions are lulled to pious quiet by the noble devotions of the day. Probably, of all those who on this festival gather in the places of Christian worship, there are none, unless it be the wholly blind and unbelieving, who leave the house of God without some touch of pure and healthful influences; carrying with them, for a while at least, something more than usual of the light of Truth. Upon this holy day, there is indeed an increase of “peace on earth:” those who love already, love more truly, with more of that “pure and fervent affection” enjoined by the Apostle; friends draw nearer; and even those who in the struggle of life have held themselves as enemies, look with a milder eye upon each other—they feel, perhaps, some drop of better feeling, falling like oil on the stormy waves of evil passion. In short, on this day of blessing, the Christian meets no fellow-creature with absolute indifference, he parts from none with heartless carelessness.

Merry Christmas! Throughout Christendom, wherever the festival is observed—and there are now few communities where it is entirely forgotten—alms and deeds of charity to the poor and afflicted make a regular part of its services, proclaiming

“good-will to man.” The poor must ever, on this day, put in a silent but eloquent appeal for succor, in their Master's name; and those who have the means of giving, open more freely a helpful hand to their afflicted brethren. The hungry are fed, the naked are clothed, the cold are cheered and warmed with fuel, the desolate and houseless are provided for, the needy debtor is forgiven, an hour of ease and relief is managed for the weary and careworn, innocent gratifications are contrived by the liberal for those whose pleasures are few and rare. Doubtless there is no one community within the broad borders of Christendom, where the poor and needy receive, even on this day, a moiety of what should be given them, if we bore more faithfully in mind the precepts of our Master; nevertheless, were the whole amount of the charities of this festival told and numbered, it would assuredly prove larger than that of any other day of the year; and the heart rejoices that it is so; we love to remember how many sad spirits have been cheered, how many cares lightened, how many fears allayed by the blessed hand of Christian Charity moving in the name of her Lord.

Merry Christmas! What a throng of happy children there are in the world, to-day! It is delightful to recollect how many little hearts are beating with pleasure, how many childish lips are prattling cheerfully, lisping their Christmas hymns in many a different dialect, according to the speech the little creatures have inherited. These ten thousand childish groups scattered over Christendom, are in themselves a right pleasant vision, and enough to make one merry in remembering them. Many are gathered in the crowded dwellings of towns, others under the rustic roof of the peasant; some in the cabins of the poor, others within royal walls; these

are sitting about the hearth-stone on the shores of arctic Iceland, others are singing in the shady verandahs of Hindostan; some within the bounds of our own broad land, are playing with ever-blooming flowers of a tropical climate, and others, like the little flocks of this highland neighborhood, are looking abroad over the pure white snows. Scarce a child of them all, in every land where Christmas Hymns are sung, whose heart is not merrier than upon most days of the year. It is indeed a very beautiful part of Christmas customs that children come in for a share of our joys to-day; the blessing and approbation of our gracious Lord were so very remarkably bestowed on them, that we do well especially to remember their claims in celebrating the Nativity; at other festivals they are forgotten, but their unfeigned, unalloyed gayety help, indeed, to make Christmas merry; and their simple, true-hearted devotions, their guileless Hosannas, must assuredly form an acceptable offering to Him who Himself condescended to become a little child, and who has said, “Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven.” Other religions have scarcely heeded children; Christianity bestows on them an especial blessing; it is well, indeed, that they rejoice with us to-day.

Merry Christmas! The words fall idly, perhaps, from too many careless lips; they are uttered by those who give them no deeper meaning than a passing friendly salutation of the moment; and yet every tongue that repeats the phrase, bears unconscious witness to the power of the Gospel—those good-tidings of great joy to all mankind. From the lips of the most indifferent, these words seem to carry at least some acknowledgment of the many temporal benefits which Christianity has shed over the earth,

those cheaper gifts of hers which are yet incalculable in their value. They tell of aid to the needy, of comfort to the prisoner, of shelter to the houseless, of care for the sick and helpless; they tell of protection to the feeble, to women, to children; they tell of every natural affection purified and strengthened; they tell of kinder parents, of children more dutiful, of husbands more generous and constant, of wives more faithful and true, of the high bond of brotherhood more closely knit; they tell of milder governments, of laws more just, of moral education; they tell of a worship holy and pure. “The fear of the Lord maketh a merry heart,” says the wise son of Sirach.

Tuesday, 26th.—Cold; but the lake is still open. It has often beautiful moments at this season, and we watch it with increasing interest as we count the days ere its icy mask will creep over it.

Wednesday, 27th.—This evening's papers tell us of a panther actually killed on the Mohawk, immediately to the northward of our own position, within the last week! The animal was shot near the river by the captain of a Syracuse canal boat, and there seems very good reason to believe that it is the same creature who passed some weeks among our own hills. According to the reports brought into the village, the panther, when in our neighborhood, was taking a northerly course; during the last fortnight or three weeks nothing has been heard of him; and now we hear of an animal of the same kind recently killed about twenty miles to the northward of us, upon ground where it excited as much wonder as in our own valley.

It is rather mortifying that he should not have been killed in this county, where he chose to show himself repeatedly; but in fact, our sportsmen were too much afraid of being hoaxed to go

out after him; they only began to believe the truth of the story when too late.

Thursday, 28th.—Snow again. Reports from Albany say the Hudson is probably closed, and navigation broken up for the winter. The river usually freezes some time before our lake.

Friday, 29th.—Snow. A darker sky than usual.

Saturday, 30th.—Still, half-cloudy day. Snow eighteen inches deep; a fall of several inches during the night. The air is always delightfully pure after a fresh fall of snow, and to-day this sort of wintry perfume is very marked. Long drive, which we enjoyed extremely. We have put on our winter livery in earnest, and shall probably keep it, with a break here and there, perhaps, until the spring equinox. It is, indeed, a vast change from grass to snow; things wear a widely different aspect from what they do in summer. All color seems bleached out of the earth, and what was a few weeks since a glowing landscape, has now become a still bas-relief. The hills stand unveiled; the beautiful leaves are gone, and the eye seeks in vain for a trace of the brilliant drapery of autumn—even its discolored shreds lie buried beneath the snow. The fields are all alike: meadow, and corn-field, and hop-ground, lie shrouded and deserted; neither laborers nor cattle are seen a-field during three months of our year. Gray lines of wooden fences, old stumps, and scattered leafless trees are all that break the broad, white waste, which a while since bore the harvests of summer.

There is, however, something very fine and imposing in a broad expanse of snow: hill and dale, farm and forest, trees and dwellings, the neglected waste, and the crowded streets of the town, are all alike under its influence; over all it throws its beautiful vesture of purer white than man can bleach; for thousands and

thousands of miles, wherever the summer sunshine has fallen, there lies the snow.

The evergreens on the hills show more white than verdure to-day, their limbs are heavily laden with snow, especially those near the summits of the hills. Saw a couple of crows in a leafless elm; they looked blacker than ever.

The lake is fine this afternoon, entirely free from ice. When we first went out it was a deep, mottled, lead-color: but the sky cleared, and toward sunset the waters became burnished over, changing to a warm golden gray, and looking beautifully in their setting of snow and evergreens.

January, Monday, 1st.—New Year's. Light, half-cloudy day; very mild. The lake quite silvery with reflections of the snow; much lighter gray than the clouds. Excellent sleighing. The usual visiting going on in the village; all gallant spirits are in motion, from very young gentlemen of five or six, to their grandpapas, wishing “Happy New Year” to the ladies.

In this part of the world we have a double share of holiday presents, generous people giving at New Year's, as well as Christmas. The village children run from house to house wishing “Happy New Year,” and expecting a cookie, or a copper, for the compliment. This afternoon we saw them running in and out of the shops also; among them were a few grown women on the same errand. These holiday applicants at the shops often receive some trifle, a handful of raisins, or nuts; a ribbon, or a remnant of cheap calico, for a sun-bonnet. Some of them are in the habit of giving a delicate hint as to the object they wish for, especially the older girls and women: “Happy New Year—and

we'll take it out in tea”—“or sugar”—“or ribbon,” as the case may be.

Tuesday, 2d.—Windy, bright and cold. Thermometer fallen to 2 above zero. The blue waters of the lake are smoking, a low mist constantly rising two or three feet above them, and then disappearing in the clear atmosphere—a sign of ice. Cold within doors; the frost has found its way into the house; people's energies are all directed to keeping warm such days as this.

Wednesday, 3d.—Cold, but less severe. Half a mile of ice on the lake; the waters gray-blue beyond this point. The wind raises the fresh, dry snow from the earth in clouds, and sweeps the forest branches, bearing the flakes upward toward the sky again, ere they have touched the earth. A wintry cloud of this kind is now whirling to a great height above the hills at the head of the lake. These whirling snow-clouds, borne aloft from the earth, are what the “voyageurs” call a “pouderie.” Several times this morning they have been colored with a golden tint, by the sun, like sand of gold.

Excellent sleighing, but too cold to enjoy it. The driver of the stage-coach became so chilled last night, that in attempting to wrap a blanket about his body, the reins dropped from his stiffened hands, the horses ran, he was thrown from his seat, and the sleigh upset; happily no one was seriously injured, though some persons were bruised.

The mails are very irregular now; the deep snow on the railroads retards them very much. This is winter in earnest.

Thursday, 4th.—Much milder. Light showers of snow, falling from time to time through the day. We have had little bright

weather for the last week or two. The lake is still more than half open. A pretty flock of sparrows came to cheer us this afternoon.

Friday, 5th.—A very stormy day; cold, high wind; snow drifting in thick clouds. Yet strange to say, though so frosty and piercing, the wind blew from the southward. Our high winds come very generally from that quarter; often they are sirocco-like, even in winter, but at times they are chilly.

All the usual signs of severe cold show themselves: the smoke rises in dense, white, broken puffs from the chimneys; the windows are glazed with frost-work, and the snow creaks as we move over it.

Saturday, 6th.—Milder and quieter. Roads much choked with snow-drifts; the mails irregular; travelling very difficult. Lake still lying open, dark, and gray, with ice in the bays. There was a pretty, fresh ripple passing over it this morning.

It is Twelfth-Night, an old holiday, much less observed with us than in Europe; it is a great day with young people and children in France and England, the closing of the holidays. It is kept here now and then in some families. But what is better, our churches are now open for the services of the Epiphany, so peculiarly appropriate to this New World, where, Gentiles ourselves, we are bearing the light of the Gospel onward to other Gentile races still in darkness.

Monday, 8th.—Cold night. The lake is frozen. We have seen the last of its beautiful waters for three months,^[3] or more.

One always marks the ice gathering about them with regret. No change of wind or weather short of this can destroy their beauty. Even in December, when the woods are bare and dreary, when the snow hes upon the earth, the lake will often look lovely as in summer—now clear, gay blue; now still, deep gray; then again varied with delicate tints of rose and purple, and green, which we had believed all fled to the skies.

At 7 o'clock this morning the thermometer was three degrees above zero; this evening it has risen to twenty-six degrees.

Tuesday, 9th.—Much milder; no more frost-work on the windows. Sparrows flitting about. We have seen more of them than usual this winter.

The hens are beginning to lay; a few eggs brought in from the poultry-yard. The eggs of this county have a great reputation among the dealers who supply the large towns. They are considered superior to those of other counties, probably from their size; no other eggs but those of Canada rank as high as ours in the city markets.

Wednesday, 10th—Bright, cold day. Thermometer 6° below zero this morning.

The California gold mania has broken out among us. Two months since we knew nothing of these mines. Now, many of our young men, ay, and old men, too, have their heads full of them, eager to be off. A company for emigration is forming in the county, and the notices are posted up on the village trees in every direction.

How fortunate it was, or, rather, how clearly providential, that those tempting placers were not found on the Atlantic coast by our ancestors! Well for them, and for us their descendants, that the

rich gold mines were found in Mexico and Peru, and not in Virginia or Massachusetts, the New Netherlands, or Pennsylvania. Well for the nation that the Indians spoke the truth when they pointed farther and farther to the westward for the yellow metal. Well for the people that they had to work their way across the continent before touching that dangerous ground. Had the placers of California lain in the Highlands, in the White or the Blue Mountains, we should now, in all probability, have belonged to enfeebled, demoralized colonies, instead of occupying the high and hopeful ground where we now stand, and which we may, by the grace of Providence, continue to hold, if true to our God, true and united among ourselves.

Thursday, 11th.—Clear, and severely cold. Thermometer 16 below zero at daylight this morning. Too cold for sleighing; but we walked as usual. So cold that the children have given up sliding down hill—the winter pastime in which they most delight. The lake is a brilliant field of unsullied white; for a light fall of snow covered it as it froze, greatly to the disappointment of the skaters. The fishermen have already taken possession of the ice, with their hooks baited for pickerel, and salmon-trout.

Men are driving about in fur over-coats, looking like very good representations of the four-legged furred creatures that formerly prowled about here. Over-coats of buffalo robes are the most common; those of fox and gray rabbit, or wolf, are also frequently seen.

Friday, 12th.—Severely cold. Thermometer 17 below zero at sunrise. Clear, bright weather. White frost on the trees this morning; the sign of a thaw. Few sleighs in motion; only a wood-sled here and there, bringing fuel to the village.

Such severe weather as this the turkeys can hardly be coaxed down from their roost, even to feed; they sometimes sit thirty-six hours perched in a tree, or in the fowl-house, without touching the ground. They are silly birds, for food would warm them.

Saturday, 13th.—Quite mild; bright sky; soft air from the southwest. Pleasant walk on the lake; just enough snow on the ice first formed, for a mile or so, to make the footing sure. Beyond this the ice is clear, but unusually rough, from having frozen of a windy night when the water was disturbed.

The clear, icy field, seen in the distance, might almost cheat one into believing the lake open; it is quite blue this afternoon with reflections of the sky. But we miss the charming play of the water.

Monday, 15th.—Yesterday was a delightful day; soft and clear. To-day it rains. We always have a decided thaw this month; “the January thaw,” which is quite a matter of course. The lake is watery from the rain of Saturday night, which has collected on the ice, lake above lake, as it were. The hills and sky are clearly reflected on this watery surface, but we feel rather than see, that the picture is shallow, having no depth.

Tuesday, 16th.—The days are growing, as the country people say, very perceptibly. It is surprising how soon one observes a difference in this respect. According to the almanac, we have only gained a few minutes morning and evening—scarcely enough, one would think, to make any impression—but one marks the lengthening afternoons at once. We seem to have gained half an hour of daylight at least. This is always the first pleasant change in the new year.

Wednesday, 17th.—Pleasant weather. Good sleighing yet. Troops of boys skating on the lake. The ice is a fine light blue to-day; toward sunset it was colored with green and yellow; those not familiar with it might have fancied it open; but there is a fixed, glassy look about the ice which betrays the deception, and reminds one what a poor simile is that of a mirror, for the mobile, graceful play of countenance of the living waters, in their natural state.

The fresh, clear ice early in the season is often tinged with bright reflections of the sky.

Thursday, 18th.—It is snowing a little. The children are enjoying their favorite amusement of sliding to their hearts' content; boys and girls, mounted on their little sleds, fly swiftly past you at every turn. Wherever there is a slight descent, there you are sure to find the children with their sleds; many of these are very neatly made and painted; some are named, also—the “Gazelle,” the “Pathfinder,” &c., &c. Grown people once in a while take a frolic in this way; and of a bright moonlight night, the young men sometimes drag a large wood-sled to the top of Mount ——, or rather to the highest point which the road crosses, when they come gliding swiftly down the hill to the village bridge, a distance of just one mile—a pretty slide that—a very respectable montague russe.

Friday, 19th.—Cold. The evergreens make less difference than one would suppose in the aspect of the country. Beautiful in summer, when all about them is green, they never strike one as gloomy; those which are natives of this climate, at least, are not of a sombre character. But as winter draws on, and the snow falls, they seem to grow darker; seen in the distance, in

contrast with the white ground, their verdure becomes what the shopmen call an “invisible green,” darker than their own shadows lying on the snow. They seem at this moment to have put on a sort of half-mourning for their leafless companions. But let the snow melt, let the brown earth reappear, and their beauty returns—they are green again. There are many days in our winter when the woods of pine and hemlock look all but black. The trees taken singly, however, are always beautiful.

Saturday, 20th.—A crust has formed on the snow after the late thaw, so that we were enabled to leave the track this afternoon. It is very seldom that one can do this; there is rarely any crust here strong enough to bear a grown person. We are wholly confined to the highways and village streets for winter walks. One may look up never so longingly to the hills and woods, they are tabooed ground, like those inaccessible mountains of fairyland guarded by genii. Even the gardens and lawns are trackless wastes at such times, crossed only by the path that leads to the doorway.

Occasionally, however, a prolonged thaw carries off the snow, even from the hills, and then one enjoys a long walk with redoubled zest. Within the last few years we have been on Mount —— every month in the winter; one season in December, another in January, and a third in February. But such walks are quite out of the common order of things from the first of December to the fifteenth of March. During all that time, we usually plod humbly along the highways.

Monday, 22d.—The Albany papers give an extract from a paper of St. Lawrence county, which mentions that an animal becoming rare in this State, has recently been killed in that part of

the country. A moose of the largest size was shot in the town of Russell, near the Grass River. It is described as “standing considerably more than six feet in height, with monstrous horns to match.” It was frozen in a standing position, and exhibited as a curiosity in the same part of the country where it had been shot; many people went to look at him, never having seen one before. He was supposed to have strayed out of a large tract of forest to the southward, called the “South Wood.”

These large quadrupeds are still rather numerous in the northern forest counties of New York; their tracks are frequently seen by the hunters, but they are so wary, and their senses are so acute, that it requires great art to approach them. It is chiefly in the winter, when they herd together, that they are shot.

They are ungainly creatures, with long legs, and an ill-shaped head, heavy horns, and a huge nose. The other animals of their tribe are all well formed, and graceful in their movements; but the moose is awkward, also, in his gait. His long legs enable him to feed on the branches of trees, whence his name of moose, from the Indian musee or musu, wood-eater. It is well known that our striped maple is a great favorite with him. He is partial, also, to aquatic plants, the pond-lily in particular. It will also eat bark, which it peels off from old trees. In winter, these animals herd together in the hilly woods, and they are said to show great sagacity in treading down the snow to form their moose-yards. In summer, they visit the lakes and rivers. At this season they are light brown; in winter they become so much darker, that they have been called the Black Elk. As they grow old they generally become, indeed, almost black.

Dr. De Kay believes our moose to be identical with the elk of

Northern Europe. It is from six to seven feet in length, and has a mane. Their horns are flat, broad, and in some instances four feet from tip to tip. They have occasionally been domesticated in this State, for they are easily tamed.

The moose is decidedly a northern animal; they range on this continent from the Arctic Sea to 43° 30′ in the State of New York.

We have in the United States six varieties of the Deer family; of these, three are found in New York: the Moose, the American Deer, and the American Stag.

The Deer is the smallest and the most common of the three. On Long Island, thanks to the game laws, they are thought to be increasing, and in other southern counties they are still numerous, particularly about the Catskills and the Highlands. They are about five or six feet in length; of a bluish gray in autumn and winter, and reddish in the spring. They belong rather to a warm or temperate climate, extending from the Gulf of Mexico to Canada.

The Stag is larger than the Deer—nearly seven feet in length, and about four feet eight inches in height to the fore-shoulders. Its color is reddish in spring, then yellowish brown, and in winter gray. The Stag is now very rare in this State, though still found in the northern and southwestern counties. It is frequently called the Red Deer, and the Round-horned Elk; in fact, it would seem often to have been called more particularly the Elk, under which name it was described by Jefferson. There is a little stream in this county called the Elk Creek, and it was probably named from this animal. It differs from the Stag of Europe. Its horns are round, never palmated.

Besides these three varieties, Dr. De Kay is inclined to believe that the Reindeer was once found in this State, and that it may even possibly still exist in very small numbers in the recesses of our northern forests. It is said to have been known in Maine and at Quebec; and later still, in Vermont and New Hampshire. It is about the size of the common deer, the color varying from deep brown to light gray. Both sexes have horns, which is not the case with other species.

Tuesday, 23d.—Pleasant, mild day. Just on the verge of a thaw, which is always the pleasantest of winter weather. Walk on the lake. Quite slippery, as the ice is only dappled with patches of snow here and there; between these patches it is bare, and unusually clear and transparent. Indeed, it is just now dark almost to blackness, so free from any foreign substance—no snow being mixed with it. We never saw it more dark and pure; of course it is the deep waters beneath, shut out from the light as they are, which give this grave color to the ice as you look down upon it.

Troops of boys skating. There were no very scientific performers among them, nevertheless we followed them with interest, their movement was so easy and rapid. Most of them appeared to greater advantage on skates than when moving in their shoes. Some of the little rogues, with the laudable desire of showing off, whirled to and fro about us, rather nearer than was agreeable. “Where's your manners, I'd like to know!” exclaimed an older lad, in an indignant tone, for which appeal in our behalf we were much obliged to him.

Ladies and little girls were walking about, some sliding also,

their sleds drawn by gallant skaters. Altogether, it was a gay, cheerful scene.

The view of the village was very pleasing, the buildings showing against a bright sunset sky. They are cutting, or rather sawing ice, to supply the village next summer; the blocks are about ten inches thick. It is said that from eighteen to twenty inches is the greatest thickness of the ice observed here.

Wednesday, 24th.—Very mild—thawing—the snow going rapidly. The hills are getting brown and bare again, and the coarse stubble of the maize-fields shows plainly through the snow. Saw a winged insect by the road-side, a very rare sight indeed in our winters. I do not know what kind it was.

Met a number of teams drawing pine logs to the saw-mill. The river runs dark and gray; it never freezes near the village; the current, though not very swift, seems sufficient to prevent the ice from covering the stream. Ice often forms along the banks, but it is soon broken and carried away, and we have never seen it stretch across the river. Very pleasant it is, in the midst of a scene so still and wintry, to watch the running, living waters gliding along with a murmur as low and gentle as in June.

Thursday, 25th.—Rainy day. High south wind. The locust pods are scattered about the lawn on the dregs of the snow, yet the number on the trees seems scarcely diminished.

They are cutting ice; the sleds and men moving about in the water which lies above the ice, look oddly enough; and, like the swan of St. Mary's, they move double also—sleds, men, and oxen reflected as clear as life.

Friday, 26th.—Beautiful morning; charming sunrise, warm clouds in a soft sky. The lake rosy with reflections.

Saw a couple of flies sailing slowly about the room; they are seldom seen here in winter. The spiders, so common in the autumn, have either been killed by the cold, or lie stowed away until spring. The whole insect world is silent and invisible, save the cricket. This is the only creature of its kind heard about the house during our long winters. We have one just now living somewhere about the chimney, which sings with a very clear, spirited note, especially of an evening when the fire burns brightly. It is said that our crickets in this country are all field crickets, which have found their way into houses by accident; they seem to like their lodgings very well, for they chirrup away gayly at all seasons, even when their companions in the fields are buried deep under the snow. They do well to haunt our houses in this way, for it makes quite different creatures of them, adding another, and apparently a merry, cheerful, half to their lives. They do not seem to require the annual sleep of their companions out of doors. The true house-cricket of Europe is not found in America. Whether the voices, or rather the chirrup, of both is precisely alike, we cannot remember; probably there is not much difference, if any. It is well known that the sounds made by these little creatures are produced by playing their wing-covers; so that, in fact, they rather fiddle than sing. It is the male only who is the musician, the females are quiet.

We owe the Mice and Rats which infest our dwellings, entirely to the Old World. The common brown rat, already so numerous here, is said to have come from Asia, and only appeared in Europe about the beginning of the seventeenth century, or some two hundred and fifty years since. The English say it came over with the Hanoverian kings. The German mercenaries, the “Hessians,”

of popular speech, are supposed to have brought it to this country. The Black Rat, smaller, and now very rare, is said to have also come from Europe. We have, however, one native rat in this part of the world,—the American Black Rat—differing from the other species, and very rare indeed.

The common Mouse, also, is an emigrant from Europe.

We have very many field-mice, however, belonging to the soil. Among these is the Jumping-Mouse, which builds its nest in trees, and is common through the country. The tiny tracks of the Field-Mice are occasionally seen on the snow in winter.

There is another pretty little animal, called the Deer-Mouse, which, strictly speaking, is not considered a mouse. Its body is only three inches long, while its tail is eight inches. It takes leaps of ten or twelve feet. It is a northern animal, nocturnal, and rarely seen, but not uncommon; they are frequently found in ploughed grass-lands. They feed chiefly on grass and seeds.

Saturday, 27th.—Very fine day; quite a full market-day in the village; many people coming in from the country.

The word store has been declared an Americanism, but it is not always easy to decide what words and terms have actually been coined on this side the Atlantic, so many of those which pass for Yankeeisms being found in the best English writers, like the stage of Sterne, and the pretty considerable of Burke, for instance. Many other words and phrases of this disputed nature were undeniably brought over by the original colonists, and have been merely preserved by their descendants, while our English kinsmen have forgotten them. It is quite possible that the word “store” was first brought into common use when there was but one store-house in every new colony, and all the different wants of

the little community were supplied from the same establishment. Although circumstances have so much changed since those days, although the catalogue of necessaries and luxuries has been so much increased, yet the country store still preserves much of this character, and would seem to deserve a name of its own. It is neither a shop devoted to one limited branch of trade, nor a warehouse implying the same branch carried out on a greater scale, nor is it a bazaar where many different owners offer goods of various kinds within the same walls. The store, in fact, has taken its peculiar character, as well as its name, from the condition of the country; and the word itself, in this application of it, might bear a much better defence than many others which have found their way into books.

Now-a-days there are always, however, more than one store in every village. Indeed, you never find one of a trade standing long alone anywhere on Yankee ground. There is no such man in the country as the village doctor, the baker, the lawyer, the tailor; they must all be marshalled in the plural number. We can understand that one doctor should need another to consult and disagree with; and that one lawyer requires another with whom he may join issue in the case of Richard Roe vs. John Doe, but why there should always be two barbers in an American village, does not seem so clear, since the cut of the whiskers is an arbitrary matter in our day, whatever may be the uncertainties of science and law. Many trades, however, are carried on by threes and fours; it strikes one as odd that in a little town of some 1400 souls, there should be three jewellers and watchmakers. There are also some score of tailoresses—and both trade and word, in their feminine application, are said to be thoroughly American.

Then, again, there are seven taverns in our village, four of them on quite a large scale. As for the eating-houses—independently of the taverns—their number is quite humiliating; it looks as though we must needs be a very gormandizing people: there are some dozen of them—Lunches, Recesses, Restaurants, &c., &c., or whatever else they may be called, and yet this little place is quite out of the world, off the great routes. It is, however, the county town, and the courts bring people here every few weeks.

But to return to the “store;” there are half a dozen of these on quite a large scale. It is amusing to note the variety within their walls. Barrels, ploughs, stoves, brooms, rakes and pitchforks; muslins, flannels, laces and shawls; sometimes in winter, a dead porker is hung up by the heels at the door; frequently, frozen fowls, turkeys and geese, garnish the entrance. The shelves are filled with a thousand things required by civilized man, in the long list of his wants. Here you see a display of glass and crockery, imported, perhaps, directly by this inland firm, from the European manufacturer; there you observe a pile of silks and satins; this is a roll of carpeting, that a box of artificial flowers. At the same counter you may buy kid gloves and a spade; a lace veil and a jug of molasses; a satin dress and a broom; looking-glasses, grass-seed, fire-irons, Valenciennes lace, butter and eggs, embroidery, blankets, candles, cheese, and a fancy fan.

And yet, in addition to this medley, there are regular milliners' shops and groceries in the place, and of a superior class, too. But so long as a village retains its rural character, so long will the country “store” be found there; it is only when it has become a young city that the shop and warehouse take the place of the convenient store, where so many wants are supplied on the same spot.

It is amusing once in a while to look on as the different customers come and go. Some people like shopping in a large town, where all sorts of pretty novelties are spread out on the counters to tempt purchasers; but there is much more real interest connected with such matters in a large country store, whatever fine ladies tossing about laces and gauzes at Beck's or Stewart's may fancy. The country people come into the village not to shop, but to trade; their purchases are all a matter of positive importance to them, they are all made with due forethought and deliberation. Most Saturdays of the year one meets farm-wagons, or lumber-sleighs, according to the season, coming into the village, filled with family parties—and it may be a friend or two besides—two and three seats crowded with grown people, and often several merry-faced little ones sitting in the straw. They generally make a day of it, the men having, perhaps, some business to look after, the women some friends to hunt up, besides purchases to be made and their own produce to be disposed of, for they commonly bring with them something of this kind; eggs or butter, maple-sugar or molasses, feathers, yarn, or homespun cloths and flannels. At an early hour on pleasant Saturdays, summer or winter, the principal street shows many such customers, being lined with their wagons or sleighs; in fact, it is a sort of market-day. It is pleasing to see these family parties making their purchases. Sometimes it is a mother exchanging the fruits of her own labors for a gay print to make frocks for the eager, earnest-looking little girls by her side; often the husband stands by holding a baby—one always likes to see a man carrying the baby—it is a kind act—while the wife makes her choice of teacups or brooms; now we have two female friends, country neighbors,

putting their heads together in deep consultation over a new shawl. Occasionally a young couple appear, whom one shrewdly guesses to be betrothed lovers, from a peculiar expression of felicity, which in the countenance of the youth is dashed, perhaps, with rustic roguery, and in that of his sweetheart with a mixture of coquetry and timidity; in general, such couples are a long while making their choice, exchanging very expressive looks and whispers while the bargain is going on. It sometimes happens that a husband or father has been either charged with the purchase of a gown, or a shawl, for some of his womankind, or else, having made a particularly good sale himself, he determines to carry a present home with him; and it is really amusing to look on while he makes his selection—such close examination as he bestows on a shilling print is seldom given to a velvet or a satin; he rubs it together, he passes his hand over it with profound deliberation; he holds it off at a distance to take a view of the effect; he lays it down on the counter; he squints through it at the light; he asks if it will wash—if it will wear well—if it's the fashion? One trembles lest, requiring so much perfection, the present may after all not be made, and frequently one is obliged to leave the shop in a state of painful uncertainty as to the result, always hoping, however, that the wife or daughter at home may not be disappointed. But male and female, old and young, they are generally a long time making up their minds. A while since we found a farmer's wife, a stranger to us, looking at a piece of pink ribbon; we had several errands to attend to, left the shop, and returned there again nearly half an hour later, and still found our friend in a state of hesitation; a stream of persuasive words from the clerk showing the ribbon, seemed to have

been quite thrown away. But at length, just as we were leaving the shop for the second time, we saw the ribbon cut, and heard the clerk observe—“Six months hence, ma'am, you'll come into town expressly to thank me for having sold you three yards of that ribbon!”

It frequently happens, if you are standing at the same counter with one of these hesitating purchasers, that they will appeal to you for advice as to the merit of some print, or handkerchief, &c., &c.

Monday, 20th.—Mild, with light rain. Sleighing gone; wheel-carriages out to-day.

The Crows are airing themselves this mild day; they are out in large flocks sailing slowly over the valley, and just rising above the crest of the hills as they come and go; they never seem to soar far above the woods. This afternoon a large flock alighted on the naked trees of a meadow south of the village; there were probably a hundred or two of them, for three large trees were quite black with them. The country people say it is a sign of pestilence, when the crows show themselves in large flocks in winter; but if this were so, we should have but an unhealthy climate, for they are often seen here during the winter. This year, however, they appear more numerous than common. The voice of our crow is so different from that of the European bird, that M. Charles Buonaparte was led to believe they must be another variety; upon examination, however, he decided they were the same. The habits of our crow, their collecting in large flocks, their being smaller, and living so much on grain, are said rather to resemble those of the European Rook:

“	The shortening winter's day is near a close,
	The miry beasts returning frae the plough.
	The blackening trains o' Craws, to their repose,
	The toil-worn Cotter frae his labor goes,”—

says Burns, in the “Cotter's Saturday Night,” and he alluded to the rook, for the European crow is not gregarious. Our birds are very partial to evergreens; they generally build in these trees, and roost in them; and often at all seasons we see them perched on the higher branches of a dead hemlock or pine, looking over the country.

The Raven is rare in this State; it is found, however, in the northern counties, but is quite unknown on the coast. About Niagara they are said to be common. They do not agree with the common crow, or rather where they abound the crow seldom shows itself; at least such is observed to be the case in this country. In Sweden, also, where the raven is common, the crow is rare. The raven is much the largest bird, nearly eight inches longer, measuring twenty-six inches in length, and four feet in breadth; the crow measures eighteen and a half inches in length, and three feet two inches in breadth. Both the crow and the raven mate for life, and attain to a great age. They both have a habit of carrying up nuts and shell-fish into the air, when they drop them on rocks, for the purpose of breaking them open.

It is said that the Southern Indians invoke the Raven in behalf of their sick. And the tribes on the Missouri are very partial to Ravens' plumes when putting on their war-dress.

Tuesday, 30th.—Cooler. Wood-piles are stretching before the village doors; the fuel for one winter being drawn, sawed, and piled away the year before it is wanted. They are very busy with this

task now; these piles will soon be neatly stowed away under sheds, and in wood-houses, for they are all obliged to be removed from the streets, early in the spring, by one of the village laws.

Wood is the only fuel used in this county. In such a cold climate we need a large supply of it. Five years since it sold here for seventy-five cents a half cord; it now costs a dollar the half cord. Iron stoves are very much used here; they are considered cheaper, warmer, and safer than fire-places. But how much less pleasant they are! The smell of the heated iron is always disagreeable, and the close atmosphere they give to a room must necessarily prove unhealthy. A fine, open, wood fire is undeniably the pleasantest mode of heating a room; far more desirable than the coal of England, the peat of Ireland, the delicate laurel charcoal and bronze brazier of Italy, or the unseen furnace of Russia. The very sight of a bright hickory or maple fire is almost enough to warm one; and what so cheerful as the glowing coals, the brilliant flame, and the star-like sparks which enliven the household hearth of a bracing winter's evening as twilight draws on! Such a fire helps to light as well as heat a room; the warm glow it throws upon the walls, the flickering lights and shadows which play there as the dancing flames rise and fall, express the very spirit of cheerful comfort. The crackling, and rattling, and singing, as the flame does its cheerful work, are pleasant household sounds. Alas, that our living forest wood must ere long give way to the black, dull coal; the generous, open chimney to the close and stupid stove!

Wednesday, 31st.—Cold. Walked in the afternoon. It began to snow while we were out; but one minds the falling snow very

little; it is no serious obstacle like rain. The pretty, white spangles, as they fell on our muffs, in their regular but varied shapes, recalled a passage in Clarke's Travels in Russia, where he admires the same delicate frost-work as a novelty. It is common enough in this part of the world. Since Mr. Clarke's day these pretty spangles have received the compliment of a serious examination, they have actually been studied, and drawn in all their varieties. Like all natural objects, they are very admirable in their construction, and they are very beautiful also.

February, Friday, 1st.—Stormy day. A flock of sparrows passed the night in a balsam-fir near the house, and this morning we amused ourselves with watching their lever. We first saw them about seven o'clock, closely huddled together under the thickest of the branches; then a movement began, some of them came to the outer branches, and shook themselves; but they soon retired again to more sheltered ground, for the tree was covered with hoar-frost, and sleet was falling at the time. One would think the little creatures must have been covered with ice themselves, and half frozen. They were a long time making up their minds to get up such a stormy morning; then they busied themselves with preening and dressing their feathers; and at length, when it was near nine o'clock, they made a general movement, and flew off together in the midst of the sleet and snow.

The Chicadees and Snow-birds scarcely mind the cold at all; on the contrary, you often see them active and merry in the midst of the whirling snow and wind. Probably all our winter birds lodge at night in the evergreens.

Friday, 2d.—Milder; a little snow. This climate of ours is a trying one for the architect. In a mechanical sense, the severe

frosts, and accumulated snows, and sudden thaws of our winters, make up a season which tries men's walls, and roofs, very thoroughly. But in another way, also, our winters are a severe test of architectural merit; the buildings stand before one naked and bare, not only deprived of all the drapery of summer foliage, but rising from a ground-work of snow, they seem to stand out with peculiar boldness, and every defect challenges attention. One may feel assured that a building which bears the scrutiny of a snow climate in winter, will look like a perfect model at other seasons. There is a certain fitness in some styles of architecture which adapts them to different climates; a Grecian edifice never appears to advantage surrounded with snow; there is a sort of elegance and delicacy in its lines which seem to require softer skies, and verdure for its accessories. A Gothic pile, on the contrary, bears the snow well; it does not look chilled; it was not built of a summer's day, it was made to brave the storm and tempest of northern lands. This connection of climate and architecture would seem to have not yet received all the attention it deserves, more especially in our own country.

Saturday, 3d.—Blustering day. Among the numerous evergreens of this State are several which are interesting from European associations, and from their being rather rare in our woods, many persons believe them to be wholly wanting.

The Holly is found on Long Island, and on the island of Manhattan, and a little farther south it is very common. It grows from ten to forty feet in height, and very much resembles that of Europe, though not precisely similar.

The Yew is only seen here as a low trailing shrub, from four to

six feet high. It is found in the Highlands, and is not uncommon northward.

The Juniper, or Red Cedar, is common enough in many parts of the country. Besides this variety, which is a tree, there is another, a low shrub, trailing on the ground, found along the great lakes, and among our northern hills, and this more closely resembles the European Juniper, whose berries are used in gin.^[4]

Among the trees of note in this part of the country are also several whose northern limits scarcely extend beyond this State, and which are rare with us, while we are familiar with their names through our friends farther south. The Liquid Amber, or Sweet-Gum, is rare in this State, though very common in New Jersey; and on the coast it even reaches Portsmouth, in New Hampshire.

The Persimmon grows on the Hudson as far as the Highlands, and in the extreme southern counties. It is rather a handsome tree, its leaves are large and glossy, and its fruit, as most of us are aware, is very good indeed, and figures often in fairy tales as the medlar.

The Magnolias of several kinds are occasionally met with. The small Laurel Magnolia, or Sweet Bay, is found as far north as New York, in swampy grounds. The Cucumber Magnolia grows in rich woods in the western part of our State; and there is one in this village, a good-sized tree, perhaps thirty feet high; it is doing very well here, though the Weeping Willow will not bear our climate. This tree, in favorable spots, attains a height of

ninety feet. The Umbrella Magnolia, a small tree, with large, white flowers, seven or eight inches broad, and rose-colored fruit, is said also to be found in our western counties.

The Papaw, belonging to the tropical Custard-apple family, grows in rich soil, upon the banks of the western waters of New York, which is its extreme northern limit.

The Kentucky Coffee-tree, with its peculiar blunt branches, is also found in rich woods, on the banks of the rivers of our western counties. It is a rough, rude-looking tree, with rugged bark, and entirely without the lesser spray one usually finds on trees. We have one in the village, and it has attained to a good size, though scarcely forty years old.

Monday, 5th.—Fine day. Saw a Woodpecker in the village; one of the arctic woodpeckers, which pass the winter here. They are not common in our neighborhood.

Tuesday, 6th.—Rabbits brought to the house for sale. They are quite numerous still about our hills; and although they are chiefly nocturnal animals, yet one occasionally crosses our path in the woods by day. At this season our rabbits are gray, whence the name zoologists have given them, the American gray rabbit; but in summer they are yellowish, varied with brown. They differ in their habits from those of Europe, never burrowing in the earth, so that a rabbit warren could scarcely exist in this country, with the native species, at least. Our rabbit would probably not be content to be confined to a sort of garden in this way. Like the Hare, it makes a form for its nest, that is to say, a slight depression in the ground, beneath some bush, or wall, or heap of stones. It is found from New Hampshire to Florida.

The Northern Hare, the variety found here, is much larger

than the rabbit. It measures from twenty to twenty-five inches in length; the Gray Rabbit measures only fifteen or eighteen inches. The last weighs three or four pounds; the first six pounds and a half. In winter our hare is white, with touches of fawn-color; in summer, reddish brown; but they differ so much in shading, that two individuals are never found exactly alike. The flesh is thought inferior to that of the gray rabbit. The hare lives exclusively in high forests of pine and fir; it is common here, and is said to extend from Hudson's Bay to Pennsylvania. There are a number of other hares in different parts of the Union, but this is the only one known in our own State. It is said to make quite a fierce resistance when seized, unlike the timid hare of Europe, although that animal is now thought to be rather less cowardly than its common reputation.

Wednesday, 7th.—Was there ever a region more deplorably afflicted with ill-judged names, than these United States? From the title of the Continent to that of the merest hamlet, we are unfortunate in this respect; our mistakes began with Americo Vespucci, and have continued to increase ever since. The Republic itself is the great unnamed; the States of which it is composed, counties, cities, boroughs, rivers, lakes, mountains, all partake in some degree of this novel form of evil. The passing traveller admires some cheerful American village, and inquires what he shall call so pretty a spot; an inhabitant of the place tells him, with a flush of mortification, that he is approaching Nebuchadnezzarville, or South-West-Cato, or Hottentopolis, or some other monstrously absurd combination of syllables and ideas. Strangely enough, this subject of names is one upon which very worthy people seem to have lost all ideas of fitness

and propriety; you shall find that tender, doting parents, living in some Horridville or other, will deliberately, and without a shadow of compunction, devote their helpless offspring to lasting ridicule, by condemning the innocent child to carry through the world some pompous, heroic appellation, often misspelt and mispronounced to boot; thus rendering him for life a sort of peripatetic caricature, an ambulatory laughing-stock, rather than call him Peter or John, as becomes an honest man.

It is true we are not entirely without good names; but a dozen which are thoroughly ridiculous, would be thought too many in most countries, and unfortunately, with us such may be counted by the hundred. By a stroke of good luck, the States are, with some exceptions, well named. Of the original thirteen, two only bore Indian names: Massachusetts and Connecticut; six, as we all remember, were taken from royal personages: Virginia, from Queen Bess; Maryland, from Henrietta Maria, the French wife of Charles I.; New York, from the duchy of James II.; Georgia, called by Gen. Oglethorpe after George II., and the two Carolinas, which, although the refuge of many Huguenot families, so strangely recall the cruel Charles IX. and the wicked butchery of St. Bartholomew's. Of the remaining three, two were named after private individuals—New Jersey, from the birth-place of its proprietor, Sir George Carteret, and Pennsylvania, from the celebrated Quaker, while New Hampshire recalled an English county; Maine, the former satellite of Massachusetts, was named by the French colonists after the fertile province on the banks of the Loire, and Vermont, which stood in the same relation to New York, received its French title from the fancy of Young, one of the earliest of our American poets, who wrote “The Conquest of

Quebec,” and who was also one of the fathers of the State he named. Louisiana, called after the great Louis, and Florida, of Spanish origin, are both good in their way. Happily, the remaining names are all Indian words, admirably suited to the purpose; for what can be better than Alabama, Iowa, Missouri, Kentucky, Tennessee, &c., &c.?

New York, at present the most populous State in the republic, is in this respect the most afflicted part of the country. The name of the State itself is unfortunate in its association with the feeble James, while the combination of the adjective New, with the brief old Saxon word York, seems particularly ill-judged. To make the matter worse, the fault is repeated in the title of the largest town of the Union, both State and city bearing the same name, which is always a great mistake, for it obliges people, in writing and speaking, to specify which of the two they mean, when either is mentioned. In fact, it destroys just half the advantage of a distinctive name. The Dutch were wiser: they called the town New Amsterdam, and the province New Netherlands. In old times, when the capital town ruled a whole dependent country, it was natural that the last should be known by the name of the first; Rome and Carthage, Tyre and Athens, could each say, “L'etat, c'est moi!” and more recently, Venice, Genoa, Florence, Bern, and Geneva, might have made the same boast; but we Yankees have different notions on this point: cockneys and countrymen, we all have the same rights, and the good city of New York has never yet claimed to eclipse the whole State. The counties of New York are not quite so badly served: many of them do very well; but a very large number of the towns and villages are miserably off in this respect, and as for the

townships into which the counties are divided, an outrageously absurd jumble of words has been fastened upon too many of them. It ought to be a crime little short of high treason, to give such names to habitable places; we have Ovids and Milos, Spartas and Hectors, mixed up with Smithvilles, and Stokesvilles, New Palmyras, New Herculaneums, Romes and Carthages, and all these by the dozen; for not content with fixing an absurd name upon one spot, it is most carefully repeated in twenty more, with the aggravating addition of all the points of the compass tacked to it.

We cannot wonder that such gratuitous good-nature in providing a subject of merriment to the Old World should not have been thrown away. The laugh was early raised at our expense. As long ago as 1825, some lines in heroic verse, as a model for the imitation of our native poets, appeared in one of the English Reviews.

“	Ye plains where sweet Big-Muddy rolls along,
	And Teapot, one day to be found in song,
	Where Swans on Biscuit, and on Grindstone glide,
	And willows wave upon Good-Woman's side!”
*******
“	Blest bards who in your amorous verses call
	On murmuring Pork, and gentle Cannon-Ball,
	Split-Rock, and Stick-Lodge, and Two-Thousand-Mile,
	White-Lime, and Cupboard, and Bad-Humored Isle.”
*******
“	Isis with Rum and Onion must not vie,
	Cam shall resign the palm to Blowing-Fly,
	And Thames and Tagus yield to Great-Big-Little-Dry!”

Retaliation is but an indifferent defence, and is seldom needed,

except in a bad cause. A very good reply, however, appeared in an American Review, and it is amusing, as it proves that we came very honestly by this odd fancy for ridiculous names, having inherited the taste from John Bull himself, the following being a sample of those he has bestowed upon his discoveries about the world:

“	Oh, could I seize the lyre of Walter Scott,
	Then might I sing the terrors of Black Pot,
	Black River, Black Tail,
	Long Nose, Never Fail,
	Black Water, Black Bay,
	Black Point, Popinjay,
	Points Sally and Moggy,
	Two-Headed and Foggy,
	While merrily, merrily bounded Cook's bark,
	By Kidnapper's Cape, and old Noah's Ark,
	Round Hog Island, Hog's-Heads, and Hog-Eyes,
	Hog-Bay and Hog John, Hog's Tails, and Hog-Sties.”
*******

Perhaps this taste is one of the peculiarities of the Anglo-Saxon race, about which it is the fashion to talk so much just now. The discoverers from other nations do not seem to have laid themselves open to the same reproach. The Portuguese names for the Cape of Good Hope, Labrador, Buenos Ayres, &c., are very good; both themselves and the Spaniards gave many religious names, but the navigators of these nations also left many Indian words wherever they passed. M. Von Humboldt observes that Mantanzas, massacre, and Vittoria, victory, are frequently scattered over the Spanish colonies. The Italians have made little impression in the way of names, though they have supplied noted chiefs to many a fleet of discovery; probably, however,

many words of theirs would have been preserved on the hemisphere bearing an Italian name, if the language had been spoken in any part of the continent, by a colony of their own. As a people, they have produced great leaders, but no colonists. The French have generally given respectable names, either repetitions of personal titles, or of local names, or else descriptive words la Louisiane, les Carolines, le Maine, Montreal, Quebec, Canada for, as we have already observed, leaving a good Indian name is equal to giving one of our own. It may also be doubted if the French have placed one really ridiculous word on the map. The Dutch, also, have shown themselves trustworthy in this way; their names are rarely poetical, but they are never pompous or pretending. They are usually simple, homely, and hearty: the Schuylkill, or Hiding-Creek; Reedy Island; Boompties-Hoeck, Tree-Point; Barnegat, the Breaker-Gut; Great and Little Egg Harbors; Stillwater; Midwout, or Midwood; Flachtebos, or Flatbush; Greenebos, Greenbush; Hellegat; Verdreitige Hoack, Tedious Point; Haverstroo, or Oat Straw; Yonker's Kill, the Young-Lord's-Creek; Bloemen'd Dal, Bloomingdale, are instances. Among the most peculiar of their names, are Spyt-den-duyvel Kill, a little stream, well known to those who live on the Island of Manhattan, and Pollepel Island, a familiar object to all who go up and down the Hudson; In-spite-of-the-devil-creek is a translation of the name of the stream; formerly there was a ford there, and the spot was called Fonteyn, Springs. Pollepel means a ladle, more especially the ladle with which waffles were made. So says Judge Benson.

In short, it would not be difficult to prove that, happily for the world, other nations have shown more taste and sense in giving names than the English or the Yankees. It is remarkable, that

both the mother country and her daughter should be wanting in what would seem at first a necessary item in national existence, a distinctive name. The citizens of the United States are compelled to appropriate the title of the continent, and call themselves Americans, while the subjects of the British Empire spread the name of England over all their possessions; their sovereign is known as Queen of England, in spite of her heralds; their armies are the armies of England, their fleets are English fleets, and the people are considered as Englishmen, by their neighbors, whether born in the Hebrides, or at Calcutta, at Tipperary, or the Cape of Good Hope.

Fortunately for us, the important natural features of this country had already been well named by the red man. The larger rivers, for instance, and the lakes, are known by fine Indian words, uniting both sound and meaning, for the Indian, the very opposite of the Yankee in this respect, never gives an unfitting name to any object whatever. As the larger streams of this country are among the finest waters on the earth, it is indeed a happy circumstance that they should be worthily named; no words can be better for the purpose than those of Mississippi, Missouri, Ohio, Alabama, Altamaha, Monongahela, Susquehannah, Potomac, &c., &c. The lakes, almost without an exception, are well named, from the broad inland seas of Huron, Michigan, Erie, Ontario, to the lesser sheets of water which abound in the northern latitudes of the Union; it is only when they dwindle into the mere pond of a neighborhood, and the Indian word has been forgotten, that they are made over to the tender mercies of Yankee nomenclature, and show us how fortunate it is that we escaped the honor of naming Niagara and Ontario.

There are many reasons for preserving every Indian name which can be accurately placed; generally, they are recommended by their beauty; but even when harsh in sound, they have still a claim to be kept up on account of their historical interest, and their connection with the dialects of the different tribes. A name is all we leave them, let us at least preserve that monument to their memory; as we travel through the country, and pass river after river, lake after lake, we may thus learn how many were the tribes who have melted away before us, whose very existence would have been utterly forgotten but for the word which recalls the name they once bore. And possibly, when we note how many have been swept from the earth by the vices borrowed from civilized man, we may become more earnest, more zealous, in the endeavor to aid those who yet linger among us, in reaping the better fruits of Christian civilization.

It is the waters particularly which preserve the recollection of the red man. The Five Nations are each commemorated by the principal lakes and the most important stream of the country they once inhabited. Lakes Cayuga, Oneida, Onondaga, and Seneca, each recall a great tribe, as well as the river Mohawk, farther eastward. There is a sound which, under many combinations, seems to have been very frequently repeated by the Iroquois—it is the syllable Ca. This is found in Canada; it is preserved in two branches of the Mohawk, the East and the West Canada, Lake Canaderagua, to the south of the same stream; Canandaigua, and Canadaseago, and Canajoharie, names of Indian towns; Cayuga, Candaia, Cayuta, Cayudutta, Canadawa, Cassadaga, Cassassenny, Cashaguash, Canasawacta, Cashong, Cattotong, Cattaraugus, Cashagua, Caughnawaga, and Canariaugo,

&c., &c., are either names still found in the Iroquois country, or which formerly existed there. This syllable Ca, and that of Ot and Os, were as common at the commencement of a name as agua, aga, ogua, were at the conclusion.

From the roving life lead by the Indians, hunting and fishing in different places, according to the changes in the seasons, they have left but few names to towns and villages, and scarcely any to plains and valleys. Nor does it seem always easy to decide whether they gave their own names to the lakes and rivers, or received them from the streams; in very many cases in this part of the continent the last would seem to have been the case, especially in the subdivisions of the clans, for scarce a river but what had a tribe of its own fishing and hunting upon its banks. Their names for the mountains have only reached us in a general way, such as the Alleghany, or Endless-chain, the Kittatinny, &c., &c. Perhaps the fact that the mountains in this region lie chiefly in ridges, unbroken by striking peaks, may be one reason why single hills have not preserved Indian names; but in many instances the carelessness of the first colonists was probably the cause of their being lost, since here and there one of a bolder outline than usual must have attracted the attention of such an observant race.

Our own success in naming the hills has been indifferent; the principal chains, the Blue, the Green, the White Mountains, the Catsbergs, the Highlands, &c., &c., do well enough in the mass, but as regards the individual hills we are apt to fail sadly. A large number of them bear the patronymic of conspicuous political men, Presidents, Governors, &c., &c. That the names of men honorably distinguished should occasionally be given to

towns and counties, or to any mark drawn by the hand of society upon the face of a country, would seem only right and proper; but except in extraordinary cases growing out of some peculiar connection, another class of words appears much better fitted to the natural features of the land, its rivers, lakes, and hills. There is a grandeur, a sublimity, about a mountain especially, which should ensure it, if possible, a poetical, or at least an imaginative name. Consider a mountain peak, stern and savage, veiled in mist and cloud, swept by the storm and the torrent, half-clad in the wild verdure of the evergreen forest, and say if it be not a miserable dearth of words and ideas, to call that grand pile by the name borne by some honorable gentleman just turning the corner, in “honest broadcloth, close buttoned to the chin.” Indeed, if we except the man in the moon, whose face is made up of hills, and that stout Atlas of old, who bore the earth on his shoulder, no private individual would seem to make out a very clear claim to bestow his name upon a vast, rocky pile. Perhaps a certain Anthony, whose nose meets us so boldly in more than one place, might prove a third exception, provided one could clearly make out his identity. But generally it must be admitted that this connection between a mountain and a man, reminds one rather unpleasantly of that between the mountain and the mouse.

Doubtless it is no easy task to name a whole country. Those gentlemen who devote themselves to making geographical discoveries, who penetrate into unknown deserts, and cross seas where pilots have never been before them, encounter so many hardships, and have so many labors to occupy their attention, that we cannot wonder if they are generally satisfied with giving the first tolerable name which occurs to them; and it is perhaps only

a just reward of their exertions that the names given by them should be preserved. But this privilege can only be claimed in the earliest stages of discovery. Those who come after and fill up the map, have not the same excuse. They have more time for reflection, and a better opportunity for learning the true character of a country in its details, and consequently should be better judges of the fitness of things.

And yet it is a mortifying fact that in this and in some other points, perhaps, public taste has deteriorated rather than improved in this country; the earlier names were better in their way than those of a later date. The first colonists showed at least common sense and simplicity on this subject; it was a natural feeling which led them to call their rude hamlets along the shores of the Chesapeake and Massachusetts Bays after their native homes in the Old World; and although these are but repetitions, one would not wish them changed, since they sprang from good feeling, and must always possess a certain historical interest. But a continued, frequent repetition not only wears away all meaning, but it also becomes very inconvenient. After the Revolution, when we set up for ourselves, then was the moment to make a change in this respect; the old colonial feeling had died away, and a good opportunity offered for giving sensible, local names to the new towns springing up throughout the country; but alas, then came the direful invasion of the ghosts of old Greeks and Romans, headed by the Yankee schoolmaster, with an Abridgment of Ancient History in his pocket. It was then your Troys and Uticas, your Tullys and Scipios, your Romes and Palmyras, your Homers and Virgils, were dropped about the country in scores. As a proof that the earlier names were far better than most of those given to-day, we

add a few taken from the older counties of this State: Coldspring, the Stepping-Stones, White Stone, Riverhead, West-Farms, Grassy Point, White Plains, Canoeplace, Oakhill, Wading River, Old Man's, Fireplace, Stony Brook, Fonda's Bush, Fish-house, &c.

Long Island shows an odd medley of names; it is in itself a sort of historical epitome of our career in this way; some Dutch names, some Indian, others English, others Yankee, with a sprinkling of Hebrew and Assyrian. Long Island was the common Dutch name. The counties of Kings, Queens, and Suffolk came, of course, from England, after the conquest of the colony under Charles II.; then we have Setauket, and Patchogue, Peconic, Montauk, and Ronkonkoma, which are Indian, with many more like them; Flushing, Flatbush, Gowanus, Breuckelen or Brooklyn, and Wallabout, are Dutch; Hempstead, Oyster Bay, Near Rockaway, Shelter Island, Far Rockaway, Gravesend, Bay Side, Middle Village, and Mount Misery, are colonial; Centreville, East New York, Mechanicsville, Hicksville, with others to match, are clearly Yankee; Jerusalem, we have always believed to be Jewish; Jericho, is Canaanitish, and Babylon, we understand to be Assyrian.

There is less excuse for the pompous folly committed by giving absurd names, when we remember that we are in fact no more wanting in good leading ideas for such purposes, than other people. After the first duty of preserving as many Indian words as possible, and after allowing a portion of the counties and towns for monuments to distinguished men, either as local benefactors or deserving well of the country generally, there would no doubt still remain a large number of sites to be named. But we need not set off on a wild goose chase in quest of these.

Combinations from different natural objects have been hitherto very little used in this country, and yet they are always very pleasing when applied with fitness, and form a class almost inexhaustible from their capability of variation. Broadmeadows, Brookfield, Rivermead, Oldoaks, Nutwoods, Highborough, Hillhamlet, Shallowford, Brookdale, Clearwater, Newbridge, &c., &c., are instances of the class of names alluded to, and it would be easy to coin hundreds like them, always bearing in mind their fitness to the natural or artificial features of the spot; springs, woods, heights, dales, rocks, pastures, orchards, forges, furnaces, factories, &c., &c., are all well adapted to many different combinations in this way.

Another large and desirable class of names may be found in those old Saxon words, which have been almost entirely overlooked by us, although we have a perfectly good right to use them, by descent and speech. They will bear connection either with proper names or with common nouns. A number of these may be readily pointed out. There is ham or home, and borough, also, which have occasionally, though rarely, been used. We give others of the same kind:

Bury, means a town or a hamlet; Seabury would therefore suit a town on the sea-shore; Woodbury another near a wood.

Rise, speaks for itself, as rising ground.

Wick, has a twofold signification: either a village, or a winding shore, or bay. Sandwich would suit another village on the shore; Bushwick for a bushy spot upon some river.

Stead, and Stowe, and Stock, have all three the same general signification of a dwelling-place. Thus, Newstead means also Newtown; Woodstock means a place in the woods.

Burn and Bourne, signify either a stream or a boundary, and

would, with other words, either proper or common, suit many villages; thus, Riverbourne, where two States or counties are divided by a river. Alderburn, for a village on a brook where alders grow; Willowburn also.

Shire, means a division.

Combe, means a valley; Meadowcombe, Longcombe, Beavercombe, are instances.

Ness, is a promontory or headland; as Cliffness.

Wark, means a building; like Newark.

Worth, means a street or road, or a farm, and combined with other words, would be adapted to many a hamlet; as Longworth, Hayworth, Hopworth, &c., &c.

Werth, Wearth, and Wyrth, with the same sound, have the same meaning as Worth.

Hurst, is a thicket of young trees; Elmhurst, Hazelhurst, Maplehurst, are examples of its application.

Holt, is a wood. Grayholt would do for a hamlet near an old forest, Greenholt for a younger one; Beech-holt, Firholt, Aspen-holt, are other examples.

Shaw, is also a wood, or a marked tuft of trees; Cedarshaw, Shawbeech, Oakshaw, are examples.

Weald, also signifies a wood; Broadweald, Highweald, Pineweald, would make good names.

Wold, on the contrary, is a plain or open country, little wooded.

Hithe, is a small haven or port.

Moor, is a marsh or fen.

More, on the contrary, and Moreland, signify hilly grounds.

Mere and Pool, Water and Tarn, are of course suitable for small lakes.

Thorpe, is a village; Newthorpe, Valleythorpe, Hillthorpe, are examples.

Hay, is a hedge, and would suit a small hamlet where hedges are found.

Haw and Haugh, mean small meadows.

Cott, or Cote, applies to cottages, and would suit many hamlets.

By, as a termination, means a dwelling-place; ly or leigh, a field. Croft, a small enclosure.

Now would not most of these, and others like them, answer much better than the constant repetition of ville or town? Let us suppose a small village to spring up in a new country; one of its most prominent inhabitants, bearing the name of Antoninus Smith, has shown much interest in the place, and contributed in various ways to its advancement. His neighbors are well aware of the fact, and wish to express their sense of his merits by naming the little place after him. Some, accordingly, propose Antoninusville, others prefer Smithville; one admires Smithopolis, another Antoninustown. They are soon agreed, however, for names are among the very few subjects which it is not thought necessary to submit to discussion in this wordy land of ours. A post is put up at the first crossing in the highway—“To Smithville, 2 miles.” Now would not Smithstead, or Smithbury, have answered much better, showing that something may be done with the most unpromising name without tacking a ville to it?

Then, again: if there be several places of the same name in one neighborhood, as frequently happens, they are distinguished by East, West, North and South; as for example: Scienceville, East Scienceville, West Scienceville, Scienceville Centre. Now, it happens that a fine grove of oaks stands on a point quite near

the principal village; let us, therefore, change the name to Oakhurst, and instead of the points of the compass, to distinguish the different hamlets, let us call them Upper and Lower, High and Nether, Far and Near Oakhurst, and would not most people declare this an improvement?

The very fact of our motley origin as colonists should provide some good materials for naming new towns and villages. Not by weak and absurd repetitions of all the European capitals in the shanties of American backwoods, but by adopting those terminations peculiar to each nation which will bear an English pronunciation. Such may easily be found. Heim, and Hausen, and Dorf, and Feld, are German words, well suited to many places in Pennsylvania. Wyck, and Daal, and Dorp, are Dutch words, which will bear the same connection with proper names of Dutch origin. The Huguenots from France may employ hameau, and côte, and champ, and roche, and plaine in the same way. Some Swedish and Norwegian words of the same kind would be well placed among the honest Scandinavian colonists who have lately gone out upon the prairies of Wisconsin and Iowa. A fit selection from Scotch, Irish, and Welsh words of the same class may well be preserved among the descendants of emigrants from those countries. Now and then it would not be amiss if some of the smaller lakes and pools, which are now worse than nameless, were to become loch Jeanie, or loch Mary, loch Davie, or loch Willie. In short, if we would but think so, we have by far too many resources in this way, to be driven perpetually to the Classical Dictionary for assistance.

Thursday, 8th.—Cool and blustering day, with sunshine in the morning.

The sleighing very good, though we have but little snow on the ground. Walked near the village; a solitary bird flew past us, a sparrow, I believe; generally in winter most birds move in flocks.

Friday, 9th.—The papers this evening give an instance of a man recently killed by panthers near Umbagog Lake, a large sheet of water on the borders of New Hampshire. A hunter left home one morning to look after his traps, as usual; at night he did not return, and the next day his friends went out to look after him, when his body was found in the woods, mangled and torn, with the tracks of two panthers about the spot. So far as the marks in the snow could tell the sad history, it was believed that the hunter had come suddenly on these wild creatures; that he was afraid to fire, lest he should exasperate one animal by killing the other, and had thought it wiser to retrace his steps, walking backward, as was shown by his foot-prints; the panthers had followed as he retreated with his face toward them, but there were no signs of a struggle for some distance. He had, indeed, returned half a mile from the point where he met the animals, when he had apparently taken a misstep, and fallen backward over a dead tree; at this moment, the wild beasts would seem to have sprung upon him. And what a fearful death the poor hunter must have died! Panthers, it is said, would be very likely to have taken advantage of such an accident, when they might not have attacked the man had he continued to face them without in his turn attacking them. The body, when found, was torn and mangled; the hunter's gun, loaded and cocked, lay where it had fallen; but the creatures had left the spot when the friends of the poor man came up. They were followed some distance by their

tracks, and their cries were distinctly heard in a thicket; but it seems the animals were not attacked. Perhaps the men who followed them were not armed. What a moment it must have been, when, alone in the forest, the poor hunter fell, and those fierce beasts of prey both leaped upon him!

Saturday, 10th.—Pleasant day, though coldish. We have had no very severe days, and no deep snow, since the first week in January. The season is considered a decidedly cold one; but it has been comparatively much more severe in other parts of the country than in our own neighborhood. Our deepest snow has been eighteen inches; we have known it three feet on a level.

Monday, 12th.—It is snowing this morning. Brook Trout brought to the house. They are found in many of our smaller streams. We received a very fine mess not long since; the two largest weighed very nearly a pound; there are but few of that size now left in our waters. It would seem that our Brook Trout is entirely a northern fish. Dr. De Kay observes that he has never heard of its being found north of the forty-seventh or south of the fortieth parallel of latitude. In Ohio, it is only known in two small streams. There is another variety, the Red-bellied Trout, found in our northern mountain streams, a large and beautiful fish, of a dark olive-green color, spotted with salmon color and crimson. The flesh is said to be also of a bright red, approaching carmine.

Tuesday, 13th.—Fine day. The good people are beginning to use the lake for sleighs: it is now crossed by several roads, running in different directions. In passing along this afternoon, and looking at the foot-prints of horses, oxen, and dogs, on the snow-covered ice, we were reminded what different tracks were seen

here only seventy years since. Moose, stags, deer, wolves must have all passed over the lake every winter. To this day, the ice on the northern waters of our State is said to be strewed with carcasses of deer, which have been killed by the wolves. In former times, when the snow lay on these hills which we now call our own, the Indians by the lake shore must have often watched the wild creatures, not only moving over the ice, but along the hill-sides also, for at this season one can see far into the distant hanging woods, and a living animal of any size moving over the white ground, would be plainly observed. To-day the forests are quite deserted in winter, except where the wood-cutters are at work, or a few rabbits and squirrels are gliding over the snow.

It would seem that although the wild animals found in these regions by the Dutch on their arrival, have been generally driven out of the southern and eastern counties, all the different species may yet be found within the limits of the present State. Their numbers have been very much reduced, but they have not as yet been entirely exterminated. The only exceptions are the Bison, which is credibly supposed to have existed here several centuries since, and perhaps the Reindeer.

Bears were once very numerous in this part of the country, but they are now confined to the wilder districts. Occasionally, one will wander into the cultivated neighborhoods. They are still numerous in the hilly counties to the southward of our own, and they do not appear to be very soon driven away from their old grounds; within forty-five years, a bear has wintered in a cave on a petty stream a couple of miles from the village. They retire with the first fall of snow, and pass three or four months in their

annual sleep, living, meanwhile, upon their own fat; for they never fail to carry a good stock to bed with them in the autumn, and they wake up very thin in the spring. Their flesh is said to taste like pork. They live on all sorts of fruits and berries, wild cherries, grapes, and even the small whortleberries. Honey is well known as one of their greatest delicacies. They also like potatoes and Indian corn. They eat insects, small quadrupeds and birds, but prefer sweet fruits to any other food. They are from four to six feet in length, and three feet in height to the foreshoulders.

The moose, the stag, and the deer we have already noticed as still found within our borders.

The panther, also, it would seem, has made us quite a recent visit.

Next in size to these larger quadrupeds comes the Wolf. The American species measures four or five feet in length, and is rather more robust than that of Europe. Formerly it was believed to be smaller. We have two varieties in New York, the black and the gray, the first being the most rare. They are quite common in the northern counties, and are said to destroy great numbers of the deer, hunting them in packs of eight or ten. They are particularly successful in destroying their prey in winter, for in summer the deer take to the water and escape; but in winter, on the ice, the poor creatures are soon overtaken. The hunters say that the wolves destroy five deer where one is killed by man. Some years after this little village was founded, the howl of the wolf, pursuing the deer on the ice, was a common sound of a winter's night, but it is now many years, half a century, perhaps, since one has been heard of in this neighborhood.

Foxes are still to be found within the county, though not common. Two kinds belong to our quadrupeds: the Red and the Gray. The red is the largest, about three or four feet in length; there are two varieties of this fox which are less common, and highly valued for their furs. One is the Cross Fox, bearing the mark of a dark cross on its back: this sells for twelve dollars, while the common fox sells for two dollars. It is found throughout the State. The Black Fox, again, is extremely rare; it is almost entirely black, and only seen in the northern counties; the fur is considered six times more valuable than that of any other animal in America.

The common Gray Fox, again, is a different species, smaller than the red, and more daring. This is a southern animal, not seen far north of 42°, while it extends to Florida. Both the red and the gray probably exist in this county, but as this is not a sporting region, we hear little of them. Some skins of the red fox are, however, sold every year in the village.

Beavers have become extremely rare in New York. They no longer build dams, but are found only in families in the northern counties. Three hundred beaver skins were taken in 1815 by the St. Regis Indians, in St. Lawrence county; since then the animals have become very rare. They were formerly very common here, as in most parts of the State; there was a dam at the outlet of our lake, and another upon a little stream about a mile and a half from the village, at a spot still bearing the name of Beaver Meadows. These animals are two or three feet long, of a bay or brown color. They are nocturnal in their habits, and move on land in successive leaps of ten or twelve feet. They are said to eat fish as well as aquatic plants and the bark of trees. Old

Vanderdonck declares that 80,000 beavers were killed annually in this part of the continent during his residence here, but this seems quite incredible. Dr. De Kay has found, in a letter of the Dutch West India Company, the records of the export of 14,891 skins in the year 1635. In ten years, the amount they exported was 80,103, the same number which the old chronicler declares were killed in one year. The flesh was considered the greatest of dainties by the Indians, the tail especially; and in this opinion others agreed with them, for it is said that whenever a beaver, by rare good luck, was caught in Germany, the tail was always reserved for the table of the Emperor. The Russians, it seems, were great admirers of beaver fur, and the New Netherlanders shipped their skins to that country, where they were used as trimmings, and then returned to the Dutch, after the hair had worn away by use, to be made into hats, for which they were better adapted in this condition than at first.

Otters are now very rare indeed; they were once very common on our streams. Their habits are much like those of the beaver, but they are decidedly larger, measuring from three to five feet in length. Their fur is valued next to the beaver for hats and caps, and is in great request, selling at eight dollars a skin. These animals have one very strange habit: it is said that they actually slide down hill on the snow, merely for amusement; they come down head foremost, and then, like so many boys, climb up for the pleasure of the slide down again. They will amuse themselves for hours in this way. And even in summer, they pursue the same diversion, choosing a steep bank by the side of a stream, which gives them a dip as they come down. One would like to see them at their play. “The Otter,” would be a very good

name for one of the sleds used by boys for the same amusement.

Fisher is another name for the Black Cat, an animal nearly three feet in length, which was formerly very numerous. It is nocturnal, eats small quadrupeds, and climbs trees. It feeds on fish also, stealing the bait and destroying traps, whence its name.

The Sable, or Marten, is a small brown animal, about two and a half feet in length. It is nocturnal, and lives entirely in the trees of our northern forests. To procure this valuable fur, the hunters will sometimes stretch a line of traps across sixty or seventy miles of country, allowing six to ten traps for each mile! Every trap is visited about once in a fortnight. Dr. De Kay supposes that our Sable is quite distinct from the European Pine Marten, to which it is allied.

The Ermine of New York is a small creature, about one or two feet in length; in winter, it is pure white, but brown in summer. It is active and nocturnal. Our people sometimes call it the Catamingo.

Then there are two Weasels, confounded at times with the Ermine, and about twelve inches in length.

The Mink lives on fish, haunting ponds. It is about two feet in length.

The Skunk we all know only too well. There is one in the village now, which has taken possession of the cellar of one of the handsomest houses in the place, and all but driven the family out of doors. For several months it has kept possession of its quarters with impunity; our friends being actually afraid to kill it, lest its death should be worse even than its life.

The Wolverine is another nocturnal creature, about two feet

and a half in length. It destroys numbers of small animals. Its color varies from cream to dark brown. It is very troublesome about the hunters' traps, stealing their bait, but fortunately it is rare. The Indians called it “Gwing-gwah-gay,” a tough thing. It is now unknown south of 42°, though formerly extending to Carolina.

Raccoons are found all over North America; they are about the size of the Wolverine, two or three feet in length. We saw one not long since, caught in the neighborhood, and living in a cage. Their color varies: gray, mixed with black. It has been described as having “the limbs of a bear, the body of a badger, the head of a fox, the nose of a dog, the tail of a cat, and sharp claws, by which it climbs trees like a monkey.” It is very partial to swamps. The flesh, when young, is said to taste like that of a pig. He eats not only fowls, but Indian corn, so that the farmer has no great partiality for him. The fur is valuable for hats.

There is also a sort of Marmot in this State, and quite a common animal, too: the Woodchuck, or Ground-hog; it is a social creature, laying up stores of provisions in its burrow. It is about twenty inches in length. It is a great enemy to clover, upon which it feeds. They are found alike in the forest and upon the farm, making deep and long burrows.

The Muskrat, or Musquash, is an aquatic creature, about eighteen inches in length; quite common.

The Opossum is also found within our limits, in the southern counties. It lives in trees, feeding on birds' eggs and fruits. It is nocturnal, measures about two feet in length, and is of a grayish white color. East of the Hudson it is not found.

The Porcupine is about two and a half feet in length, a gentle,

harmless creature, though forbidding in its aspect. It feeds on the bark and leaves of the hemlock, ash, and bass wood. In our northern counties, they are still quite numerous. They leave their spines in the bodies of their enemies, but are easily killed by a blow on the nose. The Indians of many tribes seem to have had a great fancy for the porcupine quills, showing much ingenuity in using them for ornamental purposes.

Such, with the rabbit, and hare, and the squirrels, are the more important quadrupeds of this part of the country; all these were doubtless much more numerous in the time of the Red man than to-day, and probably many of the species will entirely disappear from our woods and hills, in the course of the next century. They have already become so rare in the cultivated parts of the country, that most people forget their existence, and are more familiar with the history of the half-fabulous Unicorn, than with that of the American panther or moose.

Wednesday, 14th.—Cold day. Quite a rosy flush on the lake, or rather on the ice and snow which cover it; there are at times singular effects of light and shade upon the lake at this season, when passing clouds throw a shadow upon it, and give to the broad white field very much the look of gray water.

It is St. Valentine's day, and valentines by the thousand are passing through the post-offices all over the country. Within the last few years, the number of these letters is said to have become really astonishing; we heard that 20,000 passed through the New York post-office last year, but one cannot vouch for the precise number. They are going out of favor now, however, having been much abused of late years.

The old Dutch colonists had a singular way of keeping this

holiday; Judge Benson gives an account of it. It was called Vrouwen-Dagh, or woman's day. “Every mother's daughter,” says the Judge, “was furnished with a piece of cord, the size neither too large nor too small; the twist neither too hard nor too loose; a turn round the hand, and then a due length left to serve as a lash.” On the morning of this Vrouwen-Dagh, the little girls—and some large ones, too, probably, for the fun of the thing—sallied out, armed with just such a cord, and every luckless wight of a lad that was met received three or four strokes from this feminine lash. It was not “considered fair to have a knot, but fair to practice a few days to acquire the sleight.” The boys, of course, passed the day in a state of more anxiety than they now do under the auspices of St. Valentine; “never venturing to turn a corner without first listening whether no warblers were behind it.” One can imagine that there must have been some fun on the occasion, to the lookers-on especially; but a strange custom it was. We have never heard of anything like it elsewhere. The boys insisted that the next day should be theirs, and be called Mannen-Dagh, man's day, “but my masters were told the law would thereby defeat its own purpose, which was, that they should, at an age, and in a way most likely never to forget it, receive the lesson of Manliness, never to strike.” As the lesson has been well learnt by the stronger sex in this part of the world, it is quite as well, perhaps, that the custom should drop, and Vrouwen-Dagh be forgotten. But after this, who shall say that our Dutch ancestors were not a chivalrous race?

Thursday, 15th.—Very cold. Still, bright day; thermometer 8° below zero this morning at sunrise. The evergreens feel this severe weather, especially the pines; when near them, one

observes that their long slender leaves are drawn closer together, giving a pinched look to the tufts, and the young twigs betray an inclination to droop. The hemlocks also lose something of their brilliancy. The balsams do not seem to feel the cold at all.

Friday, 16th.—Very cold, clear day. Thermometer 8° below zero this morning again.

Looking abroad through the windows such weather as this, in a climate so decided as ours, one might almost be persuaded that grass, and foliage, and flowers are dreamy fancies of ours, which, like the jewel-bearing trees of fairy-land, have never had a positive, real existence. You look in vain over the gardens, and lawns, and meadows, for any traces of the roses and violets which delighted you last summer, and which you are beginning to long for again. But turn your eyes within doors, and here you shall find the most ample proofs that leaves and blossoms really grow upon this earth of ours; here, within the walls of our dwellings, we need no green-house, or conservatory, or flower-stand to remind us of this fact. Here, winter as well as summer, we find traces enough of the existence of that beautiful part of the creation, the vegetation; winter and summer, the most familiar objects with which we are surrounded, which hourly contribute to our convenience and comfort, bear the impress of the plants and flowers in their varied forms and colors. We seldom remember, indeed, how large a portion of our ideas of grace and beauty are derived from the plants, how constantly we turn to them for models. It is worth while to look about the first room you enter, to note how very many proofs of this you will find there. Scarcely an article of furniture, from the most simple and homely to the most elegant and elaborate, but carries about it some imitation of this kind,

either in its general outline, form, or color, or in some lesser details. Look at the chair on which your friend is sitting, at the carpet beneath your feet, at the paper on the walls, at the curtains which shut out the wintry landscape, at the table near you, at the clock, the candlesticks, nay, the very fire-irons—or it may be the iron mouldings upon your stove—at the picture-frames, the book-case, the table-covers, the work-box, the inkstand, in short, at all the trifling knick-knacks in the room, and on all these you may see, in bolder or fainter lines, a thousand proofs of the debt we owe to the vegetable world, not only for so many of the fabrics themselves, but also for the beautiful forms, and colors, and ornaments we seek to imitate. Branches and stems, leaves and tendrils, flowers and fruits, nuts and berries, are everywhere the models.

As for our clothing, in coloring as in its designs, it is a studied reflection of the flowers, and fruits, and foliage; nay, even the bark, and wood, and the decayed leaves are imitated; feuille morte was a very fashionable color in Paris, once upon a time. Madame Cottin, the authoress of the Exiles of Siberia, had a “feuille morte” dress, which figured in some book or other, thirty or forty years ago. The patterns with which our dresses and shawls are stamped or woven, whether from the looms of France, Italy, or Persia, are almost wholly taken from the fields and gardens. Our embroidery, whether on lace, or muslin, or silk, whether it be the work of a Parisian, a Swiss, a Bengalee, or a Chinese, bears witness to the same fact. Our jewelry shows the same impression. In short, the richest materials and the cheapest, the lightest and the heaviest, are alike covered with blossoms, or vines, or leaves, in ten thousand varied combinations.

And such has always been the case; the rudest savage, the semi-barbarian, and the most highly civilized races have alike turned to the vegetation for their models. Architecture, as we all know, has been borrowed almost wholly from the forest, not only in its grander forms, but also in its lesser ornamental parts; the lotus, the honeysuckle, and the acanthus, are found carved on the most ancient works of man yet standing upon the earth—the tombs and temples of Hindostan, and Egypt, and Greece. In short, from the most precious treasures of ancient art, down to the works of our own generation, we find the same designs ever recurring. The most durable and costly materials the earth holds in her bosom, stone and marble, gold, and silver, and gems, have been made to assume, in a thousand imposing or graceful forms, the lines of the living vegetation. How very many of the proudest works of art would be wanting, if there had been no grace and dignity in trees, no beauty in leaves and flowers!

Probably the first rude attempts at pottery were modelled upon the rounded forms of the Eastern gourds. The rinds of vegetables of that kind were doubtless the first vessels used by man in antediluvian times. Wherever they are found, they are employed in this way by the savage races of the present day. The Indians of this part of the world were using the rind of gourds as water-vessels in their wigwams, when the Dutch came among them; the colonists also borrowed the custom, glad to turn the “calabash” to account in this way, since crockery and other hardware were not easily procured. Before tin-ware and crockery had become so cheap, calabashes or gourds were constantly seen in American farm-houses, as water-vessels, in common use; very possibly a few may yet be found here and there, in rural, inland districts, at the present hour.

Among the remains of Aztec pottery, preserved in the Museum at Mexico, there are vessels in imitation of fruits. Others, however, are in the form of shells, a natural device for people living between two oceans.

There is a design of art very common among us to-day, which carries one far back into the forests of primeval ages, when hunters were heroes. Look at the tea-table beside you: if it be one of neat workmanship, you will probably find that the legs are carved in imitation of the claw of a lion, a device so common for such purposes, that a village workman will offer to cut it for you in the black walnut, or bird's-eye maple, or mahogany, of a continent where no lion has ever been found! When first carved, in Egypt, or Asia, or Greece, it probably recalled some signal contest within the bounds of the primeval forest, between the fiercest of savage animals and some local Hercules. From the dignity of the animal, and the renown of the hunter, the device was preserved; and it has been handed down by the most polished artists of successive ages, until it has reached our own Western World. It is very often found carved in marble, or moulded in bronze, and generally, the acanthus leaf makes part of the design.

Saturday, 17th.—Bright, clear sunshine. Thermometer 4° below zero at sunrise.

Sunday, 18th.—Cold and bright day. Thermometer 2° below zero at sunrise.

Monday, 19th.—Very cold; bright weather; thermometer 12° below zero at seven o'clock. We have had a week of severe weather; generally, the extreme cold does not last longer than three days at one time. There is a white frost, however, this morning on the trees: the forerunner of a thaw. Walked, as usual, though not far; in such weather one dues not care to be

out long at a time. It is something of an exertion to leave the fire-side and face such a sharp frost.

Tuesday, 20th.—Growing milder. Cloudy; thermometer above zero at sunrise; at two o'clock it had risen to twenty.

Amused ourselves this evening by looking a little into the state of things in our own neighborhood, as reported by the last general Census; comparing the condition of our own county with that of others in the same State. The growth of the inland region, to which our valley belongs, will prove, in most respects, a good example of the state of the country generally. The advance of this county has always been steady and healthful; things have never been pushed forward with the unnatural and exhausting impetus of speculation, to be followed by reaction. Neither do we possess a railroad or a canal within our limits. We have not even a navigable river within our bounds; steamboats and ships are as great strangers as the locomotive. It will be seen, therefore, that we claim no striking advantages of our own, and what prosperity we enjoy, must flow from the general condition of the country, and the industry of our population. Improvement, indeed, has here gone on steadily and gradually, from the time when the valley was shaded by the forest, some sixty-five years since, to the present hour. And now let us see what has been done in that time.

The county is one of fifty-nine in this State; its area is 892 square miles, that of the State is 45,658 miles. The population of the county in 1840, the date of the following estimates, was 49,626 souls, that of the State, 2,428,292 souls. This is the nineteenth county in the State for extent, and the thirteenth for population. The people are scattered over the hills and valleys, in farm-houses and cottages, or collected in villages and hamlets;

the largest town in the county contained, at the date of these estimates, 1,300 souls.

First let us look at the state of things in agricultural matters, produce and stock, &c., &c.

---

 No., Value, &c., 
in County.

 No., Value, &c., 
in State.

 Otsego Co. ranking as—

---

---

---

---

Horses,

12,331 

No.	474,543
No.	1,911,244
No.	5,118,717
No.	1,900,065
Value	$1,151,418
Am't	12,288,418
Am't	2,520,068
Am't	20,675,847
Am't	2,797,320
Am't	10,973,286
Am't	2,287,885
Am't	9,845,295
Am't	447,250
Am't	52,795
Am't	30,123,614
Am't	3,127,047
Am't	1,130¾
Am't	744
Am't	1,735
Am't	10,048,109
Value	$10,496,021
Value	$1,701,935

 VII.

Neat Cattle,

66,035 

 III.

Sheep,

235,979 

 I. by 20,000.

Hogs,

47,637 

 XII.

Poultry, value,

$825,781 

 XII.

Wheat, bushels,

148,880 

 XXIII.

Barley, bushels,

116,715 

 VIII.

Oats, bushels,

693,987 

 V.

Rye, bushels,

68,236 

 XV.

Maize, bushels,

122,382 

 XXXII.

Buckwheat, bushels,

45,659 

 XVIII.

Wool, pounds,

451,064 

 I.

Hops, pounds,

168,605 

 I.

Wax, pounds,

2,941 

 II. Ulster yields more.

Potatoes, bushels,

1,239,109 

 IV.

Hay, tons,

106,916 

 III.

Hemp and Flax, tons,

33¾ 

 V.

Tobacco, pounds,

104 

 II.

Silk Cocoons, pounds, 

5 

 XXIII.

Sugar, pounds,

351,748 

 VIII.

Dairy Produce,

$383,123 

 VI.

Orchard Produce,

$41,341 

 X.

And now we will look at the manufactures:

Fulling-mills,

43 

No.	890
No.	323
Value	$3,537,337
No.	117
No.	12
Value	$3,640,237
No.	46,429
Am't	337
No.	1,216
No.	212
No.	83
No.	77
No.	321
Value	$472,900
Value	$2,364,461
Value	$2,914 117
Value	$160,248
No.	1,750
No.	6,356
No.	68
Value	$1,970,779
Value	$4,636,577
Am't	6,799

 I.

Woollen Factories,

4 

 XXVII.

Woollen Goods, value,

$11,000 

 XXXIX.

Cotton Factories,

8 

 VI.

Dyeing & Printing Estb't,

1 

 IV.

Cotton Goods, value,

$109,817 

 IX.

Manufactories of Flax,

none

 ——

Pounds of Silk, reeled,

none

 ——

Tanneries,

47 

 III.

Distilleries,

9 

 V.

Breweries,

1 

 XII.

Paper-mills,

1 

 XX.

Printing Offices,

5 

 XIII.

Musical Instm'ts made, val. 

$8,500 

 VI.

Carriages, Wagons mnct'd,

$49,760 

 XIV.

Hilts and Caps, mnct'd,

$18,985 

 XVI.

Straw Bonnets, mnct'd,

656 

 XVI.

Grist-naills,

65 

 I.

Saw-mills,

222 

 VI.

Oil mills,

3 

 IV.

Furniture manufactured,

$1,200 

 XXIII.

Home-made Goods,

$119,507 

 VII.

Wine, gallons,

90 

 ——

We turn to the proceeds of the forest:

---

 No., Value, &c., 
in County.

 No., Value, &c., 
in State.

 Otsego Co. ranking as—

---

---

---

---

Lumber, value,

$39,934 

Value	$3,891,302
Value	7,613
Am't	15,550

 XXIV.

Pot and Pearl Ashes, tons. 

122 

 XX.

Skins and furs.

none

 ——

Various other items stand as follows:

Cast-iron Furnaces,

7 

No.	186
Value	$2,895,517
Value	$1,566,974
No.	8,308
Value	$1,106,208
Value	$966,220
Value	$2,456,792
No.	1,238
No.	5,198

 IV.

Machinery mnft'd, value,

$4,750 

 XXXVI.

Hardware mnft'd, value,

$660 

 XXII.

Small Arms mnft'd,

565 

 III.

Precious Metals mnft'd,

$2,120 

 XVI.

Granite and Marble,

$2,120 

 XXI.

Various Metals,

$21,000 

 XII.

Brick and Stone Houses,

10 

 XIX.

Wooden Houses,

134 

 XV.

Upon some occasion, when assailed by the statistics of his opponents, Mr. Canning is said to have quietly observed, that “few things were more false than figures, unless it be facts,” an assertion no doubt as true, as it is witty. There are probably many errors in all these tables; perhaps one might point out two items which are not strictly accurate in the statement of things in our own county. It is said, for instance, that no flax is manufactured here, while there is very frequently a little used in this way in home-made manufactures. Then, again, no furs and skins are reported: but a few fox skins are sold in the village, probably, every year. Still, the general view is sufficiently accurate to be very interesting. What a striking difference there is already, for instance, in this new county, between the produce of the forests and that of manufactures and agriculture! Furs and skins have entirely disappeared, and in the place of the beaver and deer, our valleys now feed a greater number of sheep than any other county in the State. The produce of the lumber is already less than that of the orchards. The value of the maple sugar nearly equals

that of the lumber. It will be observed, that for wool, hops, fulling-mills, and grist-mills, we are the first county in the State. For wax we are the second; and doubtless for honey also, though honey is not specified in the table. For neat cattle we are the third. For wheat the twenty-third; thirty-five years ago, this was one of the greatest wheat regions in the whole country, but the weevil made its appearance, and became so mischievous that our farmers have changed their wheat-fields into hop-grounds.

Oddly enough, for tobacco we are the second county, although that does not say much, since only 744 lbs. are raised in the State, and probably most smokers would think that amount more than enough, for the quality must be very indifferent. But here and there a little is raised by the farmers for their own uses, and perhaps to fill a pipe for their wives now and then; quite a number of country women in our neighborhood are in the habit of smoking, and occasionally, young women, too. Not that the habit is a general one, though in rustic life, more women smoke than is commonly believed. Formerly, there was probably much more tobacco raised in this State than at present, for in old times, when we still had slaves among us, it was a general rule that every head of a family among the blacks had a little patch of land allotted to him expressly for the purpose of raising broom-corn and tobacco: the corn he made up into brooms and sold to the family, the tobacco he kept for himself and his wife.

Observe that the woollen and cotton goods manufactured in this State are nearly equal in value; the cotton goods amounting to $3,600,000, the woollen goods $3,500,000. The amount of home-made goods exceeds either by a million, $4,600,000. The value of the lumber, for the same year, was less than that of the

home-made goods, and rather more than the value of the cotton manufactures, $3,800,000. The dahy produce is very valuable, $10,400,000.

It will be seen that there are a large number of horses in this county; and nearly a hog for every human being, babies and all. One house in fourteen, among those built that year, was of stone or brick. The proportion in the State generally, was one in six.

Wednesday, 2lst.—The following are the premiums allotted by the County Agricultural Society for the best crops, at the last harvest:

Best acre of Wheat,	32  bushels,	Prize	$4 00
Second best acre of Wheat,	31½ bushels,	Prize	$3 00
Best acre of Rye,	33½ bushels,	Prize	$3 00
Best acre of Buckwheat,	29¼ bushels,	Prize	$3 00
Best acre of Barley,	41  bushels,	Prize	$3 00
Best acre of Oats,	71  bushels,	Prize	$3 00
Second best acre of Oats,	61  bushels,	Prize	$2 00
Third best acre of Oats,	51  bushels,	Prize	$1 00
Best acre of Maize,	107  bushels,	Prize	$4 00
Second best acre of Maize,	91  bushels,	Prize	$3 00
Third best acre of Maize,	77½ bushels,	Prize	$2 00
Best half acre of Potatoes,	167  bushels,	Prize	$4 00
Second best half acre of Potatoes,	92  bushels,	Prize	$3 00
Best half acre Marrowfat Peas,	28½ bushels,	Prize	$3 00
Best ten rods of Carrots,	73½ bushels,	Prize	$4 00
Second best ten rods of Carrots,	45  bushels,	Prize	$3 00
Best ten rods of Mangel-Wurzel,	81  bushels,	Prize	$3 00
Best specimen of Apples,		Prize	$3 00
Second best specimen of Apples,		Prize	$2 00
Third best specimen of Apples,		Prize	$1 00

Thursday, 22d.—Quite mild again. Cloudy. Soft, bluish haze on the hills.

Walked about the village this afternoon, looking at last summer's birds' nests. Many are still left in the trees, and just now they are capped with snow. Some birds are much more careful

architects than others. The robins generally build firmly, and their nests often remain through the winter. The red-eyed vireo, or greenlet, or fly-catcher, as you please, is one of our most skillful builders; his nest is pendulous, and generally placed in a small tree—a dog-wood, where he can find one; he uses some odd materials: withered leaves, bits of hornets' nests, flax, scraps of paper, and fibres of grape-vine bark; he lines it with caterpillars' webs, hair, fine grasses, and fibres of bark. These nests are so durable, that a yellow-bird has been known to place her own over an old one of a previous year, made by this bird; and field-mice, probably the jumping-mice, are said frequently to take possession of them after the vireo and its brood are gone. But the red-eyed greenlet is rather a wood-bird, and we must not look for his nest in the village. His brother, the white-eyed greenlet, frequently builds in towns, even in the ornamental trees of our largest cities, in the fine sycamores of the older streets of Philadelphia, for instance.

The nests about our village door-yards and streets are chiefly those of the robin, goldfinch, yellow-bird, song-sparrow, chipping-bird, oriole, blue-bird, wren, Phoebe-bird, and cat-bird, with now and then a few greenlets; probably some snow-birds also, about the garden hedges or fences. This last summer it looked very much as though we had also purple-finches in the village; no nest was found, but the birds were repeatedly seen on the garden fences, near the same spot, at a time when they must have had young. Humming-birds doubtless build in the village, but their nests are rarely discovered; and they are always so small, and such cunning imitations of tufts of lichens and mosses, that they are

unobserved. As for the numerous swallow tribe, their nests are never found now-a-days, in trees.

Of all these regular summer visitors, robin builds the largest and most conspicuous nest; he will often pick up long strings, and strips of cloth or paper, which he interweaves with twigs and grass, leaving the ends hanging out carelessly; I have seen half a dozen paper cuttings, eighteen inches long, drooping like streamers in this way, from a robin's nest. The pensile nest of the oriole is more striking and peculiar, as well as much more neat than any other. Specimens of all the various kinds built in trees are now plainly seen in the branches; many have no doubt fallen, but a good number have kept their place until to-day, through all the winter storms. We amused ourselves this afternoon with looking after these nests in the trees as we passed along the different streets of the village.

All these village visitors seem a very sociable race: they generally collect in little neighborhoods, half a dozen families in adjoining trees, leaving others for some distance about them untenanted. It is pleasant, also, to notice how frequently they build near houses, about the very doors and windows, as though out of friendliness to man, while other trees, quite as good as those chosen, are standing vacant a little farther off. In several instances this afternoon, we saw two, three, and even four nests in one tree, shading the windows of a house; in very many cases, the three or four trees before a house were all tenanted; we observed a cottage with three little maples recently planted in the door-yard, and so much trimmed that they could scarcely boast a dozen branches between them, yet each had its large robin's nest. The

birds seem to like to return to the same trees—some of the older elms and maples are regularly occupied every summer as a matter of course.

There is another fact which strikes one in looking at these nests about the village: the birds of different feathers show a very marked preference for building in maples. It is true these trees are more numerous than others about our streets, but there are also elms, locusts, and sumachs mingled with them, enough, at least, to decide the question very clearly. This afternoon we counted the nests in the different trees as we passed them, with a view to this particular point, and the result was as follows: the first we came to were in a clump of young trees of various kinds, and here we found nine nests, one in a locust, the other eight in maples. Then following the street with trees irregularly planted on either side, a few here, a few there, we counted forty-nine nests, all of which were in maples, although several elms and locusts were mingled with these; frequently there were several nests in the same maple. Next we found one in an elm; then fourteen more in maples, and successively as follows: one in a yellow willow; eleven in maples; six in a row of old elms regularly inhabited every season, and as usual, an oriole nest among these; one in a lilac-bush; one in a mountain-ash; eleven in maples; one in an elm; one in a locust; six in maples; one in a balm of Gilead; two in lilac-bushes; two in elms, one of them an oriole nest, and ten in maples. Such was the state of things in the principal streets through which we passed, making in all one hundred and twenty-seven nests, and of these, eighteen were in various kinds of trees; the remaining one hundred and nine were in maples.

One can easily understand why the orioles should often choose the drooping spray of the elm for their pendulous nests—though they build in maples and locusts also—but it is not easy to see why so many different tribes should all show such a very decided preference for the maples. It cannot be from these trees coming into leaf earlier than others, since the willows, and poplars, and lilacs are shaded before them. Perhaps it may be the luxuriant foliage of the maple, which throws a thick canopy over its limbs. Or it may be the upward inclination of the branches, and the numerous forks in the young twigs. Whether the wood birds show the same preference, one cannot say. But along the roads, and near farm-houses, one observes the same decided partiality for these trees; the other day we observed a maple not far from a farm-house, with five nests in it, and a whole orchard close at hand, untenanted. The sumachs, on the contrary, are not in favor; one seldom sees a nest in their stag-horn branches. Neither the growth of their limbs, nor that of their foliage, seems to suit the birds.

Friday, 23d.—Very mild, sunshiny day; quite spring-like. We have just now soft, thawing days, and frosty nights, the first symptoms of spring. Cocks are crowing, and hens cackling about the barn-yards, always cheerful rustic sounds.

Saturday, 24th.—Very mild and pleasant. The chicadees are hopping about among the branches, pretty, cheerful, fearless little creatures; I stood almost within reach of a couple of them, as they were gliding about the lower limbs of a sugar-maple, but they did not mind me in the least. They are regular tree birds, one rarely sees them on the ground. The snow-birds, on the contrary, are half the time running about on the earth.

The arctic or Lapland snow-bird is not unfrequent in this State as a winter visitor, but we have never seen it, or heard of it, in this county. Probably when it comes thus far south, it seeks rather a milder climate than ours, for it has been seen even in Kentucky and Mississippi.

The white snow-bird, a pretty little creature, with much white in its plumage, is also, I believe, a stranger in our neighborhood, never having seen it or heard of it here. A few are said to breed in Massachusetts, and they are not rare in winter, in parts of this State. All these birds live much on the ground, and build their nests there, and for a very good reason, since in their proper native country, in arctic regions, trees are neither very common nor very tall. One of the north-western travellers, Capt. Lyon, once found a nest of this bird in a singular position; his party came accidentally upon several Indian graves: “Near the large grave was a third pile of stones, covering the body of a child, which was coiled up in the same manner. A snow-bunting had found its way through the loose stones which composed this little tomb, and its now forsaken, neatly-built nest, was found placed on the neck of the child.”

Monday, 26th.—Pleasant day. Long drive of six miles on the lake. The snow is all but gone on shore, though it still lies on the ice to the depth of several inches; it accumulates there more than upon the land, seldom thawing much, except in rainy weather. Two very large cracks cross the lake at present, about five miles from the village; the ice is upheaved at those points, forming a decided ridge, perhaps two feet in height; it will doubtless first give way in that direction. The broad, level field of

white looks beautifully just now, when the country about is dull and tarnished, only partially covered with the dregs of the winter snow. We met a number of sleighs, for the roads are in a bad condition from the thaw; indeed, wagons are out in the village. During the last week in February, and in March, the lake is generally more used for sleighing than at any other period; we have seen heavily-loaded sleds, carrying stone and iron, passing over it at such times. The stage-sleighs, with four horses and eight or ten passengers, perhaps, occasionally go and come over the ice at that season. Our people are sometimes very daring in this way; they seldom leave the lake until some horse or sled has been lost; but happily, although there have been narrow escapes of this kind, no lives have yet been lost.

Tuesday, 27th.—Lovely day. Out on the ice again. Drove under Darkwood Hill; the evergreens looked sombre, indeed, all but black. On most of the other hills, one could see the ground distinctly, with fallen timber lying like jackstraws scattered about. But the growth of evergreens on Darkwood Hill is so dense, that they completely screen the earth. Went on shore for a short distance near the Cliffs. It is pleasant driving through the woods, even in winter; once within their bounds, we feel the charm of the forest again. Though dark and sombre in the background, yet close at hand, the old pines and hemlocks are green as ever, with lights and shadows playing about them, which in the distance become imperceptible. The trunks and limbs of the leafless trees, also, never fail to be a source of much interest. The pure wintry air is still touched with the fragrance of bark and evergreens, and the woods have a winter-light of their own, filled with

pale gray shadows falling on the snow. The stillness of the forest is more striking and impressive at this season than at any other; one may glide along for miles over some quiet wood-road, without seeing or hearing a living thing, not even a bird, or a chipmuck. The passing of the sleigh seems almost an intrusion on the haunts of silence.

Dead and shrivelled leaves are still hanging on some trees, here and there; not all the storms of winter have been able to loosen their hold on the lower limbs of the beeches; they cling, also, at this late day to some oaks, and hickories, and maples. The wych-hazels are oddly garnished, bearing, many of them, their old leaves, the open husks of last year's nuts, and the shrivelled yellow flowers of autumn. Within these lies the young fruit, which has made but little progress during the last three months.

Wednesday, 28th.—Delightful day. Pleasant drive on the lake. Went on shore at the Cliffs for eggs; the poultry-yard had quite a cheery, spring look.

Our winters are undoubtedly cold enough, but the weather is far from being always severe. We have many moderate days, and others, even in the heart of winter, which are soft and balmy, a warm wind blowing in your face from the south until you wonder how it could have found its way over the snow without being chilled. People always exclaim that such days are quite extraordinary, but in truth, there never passes a year without much weather that is unseasonably pleasant, if we would but remember it. And if we take the year throughout, this sort of weather, in all its varieties, will probably be found more favorably divided for us than we fancy. It is true there are frosty nights in May,

sometimes in June, which are mischievous to the crops and gardens. But then it frequently happens, also, that we have charming days when we have no right whatever to expect them; delightful Novembers, soft, mild weeks in December, pleasant breaks in January and February, with early springs, when the labors of the husbandman commence much sooner than usual. We have seen the fields in this valley ploughed in February; and the cattle grazing until late in December. Every year we have some of these pleasant moments, one season more, another less; but we soon forget them. The frosts and chilly days are remembered much longer, which does not seem quite right.

It is an additional charm of these clear, mild days in winter, that they often bring very beautiful sunsets. Not those gorgeous piles of clouds which are seen, perhaps, as frequently after the summer showers, as at any other period; but the sort of sunset one would not look for in winter—some of the softest and sweetest skies of the year. This evening the heavens were very beautiful, as we drove homeward over the ice; and the same effect may frequently be seen in December, January, or February. One of the most beautiful sunsets I have ever beheld, occurred here several years since, toward the last of February. At such times, a warmer sun than usual draws from the yielding snow a mild mist, which softens the dark hills, and rising to the sky, lies there in long, light, cloudy folds. The choicest tints of the heavens are seen at such moments; tender shades of rose, lilac, and warm gold, opening to show beyond a sky filled with delicate green light.

These calm sunsets are much less fleeting than others: from

the moment when the clouds flush into color at the approach of the sun, one may watch them, perhaps, for more than an hour, growing brighter and warmer, as he passes slowly on his way through their midst; still varying in ever-changing beauty, while he sinks slowly to rest; and at last, long after he has dropped beyond the farther hills, fading sweetly and imperceptibly, as the shadows of night gather upon the snow.

THE END.

1. Dr. De Kay's Zoology of New York.
2. We are none of us very knowing about the birds in this country, unless it be those scientific gentlemen who have devoted their attention especially to such subjects. The same remark applies in some measure to our native trees and plants; to our butterflies and insects. But little attention has yet been given by our people generally, to these subjects. In Europe such is not the case; many persons there, among the different classes of society, are familiar with these simple matters. Had works of this kind been as common in America as they are in England, the volume now in the reader's hands would not have been printed, and many observations found in its pages would have been unnecessary. But such as it is, written by a learner only, the book is offered to those whose interest in rural subjects has been awakened, a sort of rustic primer, which may lead them, if they choose, to something higher.
   
   If it will not be considered an assumption of importance, in a volume of the chit-chat, common-place character of that now before the reader, the writer will venture to express her thanks to Dr. De Kay and Mr. Downing, not only for their published works, but also for their kindness in directing her course on several occasions.
3. The lake opened the following spring just three months from the day it closed—on the 8th of April.
4. Sir Charles Lyell supposes the American white Cedar, or Cypress, so common on the Mohawk, to have been the food of the Mastodon, from an examination of the contents of the stomach of one of these animals.