8 LETTERS FROM THE BACKWOODS. 



with markets. Soon as the sun mounts the dusty 

 heavens, New York seems to open its mouth and rush 

 for the markets. But here by the forest, as the un- 

 clouded sun wheels with a lordly majestic motion 

 above the mountain, ten thousand birds seem to have 

 awakened at once. I would you could listen a moment. 

 It is a perfect storm of sound. From the soft warble 

 of the robin to the shrill scream of the woodpecker, 

 there is every variety of note, and yet all in accord. 

 I said nature was quiet, and every moving thing at 

 leisure ; but I was mistaken. These birds seem to be 

 in a hurry, as if they had not time to utter all their 

 music ; and they pour it forth in such rapid, thrilling 

 strains, that the ear is perfectly confused. 



Ah! there are other times when nature is not tran- 

 quil ; for now, while I am writing, a dark shadow has 

 fallen on my paper, and as I look up I see the sun has 

 left the blue sky and buried his burning forehead in a 

 black thunder cloud that is heaving, gloomy as mid- 

 night, over the mountain. The lightning searches its 

 bosom, as with an assassin's knife, and the deep low 

 growl that follows is like the slow waking up of wrath. 

 The distant tree tops rock to and fro in the gathering 

 blast, and a hush like death is on everything. Still 

 I love it. I love the strong movement of those black 

 masses. They seem conscious of power and of the 

 terror of their frown, as it darkens on the crouching 

 earth. It is black as midnight ; but I know before 

 long the sunbeams will burst forth like the smile of 

 God, the birds break out in sudden thanksgiving, and 

 the blue sky kiss the green mountain in delight. ^ 



