WINTER.

FRIDAY, December 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 mountain 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 nowadays, 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 dark at the extremity; the ears are blackish without, light 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. A man was killed by a "catamount," in this county, some fifty years ago. 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 when 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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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 blue berries of the Virginia creeper, on the contrary, are favorite food with many birds, though poisonous to man.

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.

Wednesday, 13th.–Lovely day; mild and cloudless. Walked on Mount Vision. 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, Champenois, the farmer at the Cliffs, living a mile or two from the village, on the lake shore, tells my father that he was returning quite late at night from the village, when he was startled by hearing a wild cry in the woods, above the road, sounding as though it came from Prospect Rock; 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! But 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; no doubt we should have been very heartily frightened.

Friday, 15th.–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 Buonaparte 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 crayfish 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 they remain 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, etc., etc. 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 in 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.

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, sunrise 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 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 basketful 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 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.

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.

Saturday, 23d.–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 portraits 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, as 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 fully 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, 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 store-room.

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! 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. 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 the arctic Iceland, others are singing in the shady verandas 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 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 beautiful in their setting of snow and evergreens.

Monday, January 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.

Wednesday, 3d.–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.

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 appropriated 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, ¹ 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 lies 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.

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.–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.

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 heart's 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," etc., etc. 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-shed to the top of Mount Vision, 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 montagne russe.

Saturday, 20th.–A crust has formed on the snow of the late thaw, so that we are 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 fairy-land 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 Vision 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.

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.

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.

Met a number of teams drawing pine-logs to the sawmill. The river runs dark and gray; it rarely freezes near the village; the current, though not very swift, seems sufficient to prevent the ice from covering the stream. 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. 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.

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 grasslands. 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.

Nowadays there are always 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, 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.

There are half a dozen "stores" 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. 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 clothes 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, young and old, 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."

Monday, 29th.–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,"–

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 chief fuel used in this county. In such a cold climate we need a large supply of it. Some years since it sold here for seventy-five cents a half cord; it now costs a dollar the half cord. 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!

Saturday, February 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.

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. 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.

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 zoölogists 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 Amerigo 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 General 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?

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 specific 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'état, 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 Meggy,
     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, etc., 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 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; Still-water; Midwout, or Midwood; Flachtebos, or Flatbush; Greenebos, Greenbush; Hellegat; Verdreitige Hoeck, Tedious Point; Havestroo, 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.

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 are known by fine Indian words, uniting both sound and meaning. 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. 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 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, agua, were at the conclusion.

The Indian names for the mountains have only reached us in a general way, such as the Alleghany, or Endless-chain, the Kittatinny, etc.

Our own success in naming the hills has been indifferent; the principal chains, the Blue, the Green, the White Mountains, the Catsbergs, the Highlands, 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, etc. 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 county, 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." 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.

After the Revolution 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.

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 good 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, 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, are all well adapted to many different combinations in this way.

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.

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 a salmon color and crimson. The flesh when cooked is 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.

The American Wolf 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. 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 since one has been heard of in this neighborhood.

Foxes are still to be found within the county. 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.

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.

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, 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, when 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 nowadays 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.

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 seems 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.

The white snow-bird is a pretty little creature, with much white in its plumage. They are not rare in winter, in parts of this State. 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 northwestern travellers, Captain 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 beautiful 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, occasionally go and come over the ice at this season.

Thursday, 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 giant 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 pale 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.

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Notes:

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¹ Dr. De Kay's Zoölogy of New York.

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¹ The lake opened the following spring just three months from the day it closed–on the 8th of April.