A FOEEST-POOL. 213 



Dry thy tears, sweet Bertha ! never 



Will he glance again in sight. 

 But, when paling stars are twinkling 



In the twilight of the morn, 

 Thou may'st hear his bell a-tinkling 



'Midst the snows of Wetterhorn. 

 And the kindness thou bestowest 



On the helpless, thou shalt prove. 

 Somehow, when thou little knowest. 



In a blessing from above ! 



An interesting scene of recluse life is exhibited by many 

 a little pool in tropical America, such as I have seen in 

 Jamaica, and such as I have seen, too, in the parts of the 

 northern continent bordering on the tropics. You pene- 

 trate the sombre woods perhaps for miles, and suddenly, 

 in the midst of the most perfect quietude, you see a great 

 light, and open upon an area occupied by a green level, 

 which, from indications here and there, you perceive to be 

 water, covered with a coat of vegetation. The lofty trees 

 rise up in closely-serried ranks all around, from the very 

 margin, and their long branches, as if rejoicing in the 

 unwonted room and lifiht, stretch out over the water, and 

 dip their twigs into it. The long, pendent strings of 

 parasites hang down, and lightly touch the surface, 

 whipping the floating duck-weed aside when a storm 

 agitates the great trees. From time to time, one and 

 another have been prostrated before the tempest, and, 

 falling into the pond, project their half-decayed trunks 

 in great snags from the sluggish surface, or form piers, 

 which stretch away from the banks into the midst of the 

 lake, and precarious bridges across different portions. 



