6 LETTERS FROM THE BACKWOODS. 



stood where the living current rolls strongest, and felt 

 perfectly at home amid the walled houses and packed 

 city; yet now, as the trees shake their green awning 

 over my head, and the great luminous stars sparkle 

 in the intensely clear sky that seems to rest its bright 

 arch almost on the tops of the tall hemlocks, New 

 York appears like a past dream. Oh, how quiet na- 

 ture is ! In New York, everything is in a hurry. 

 There is not a man there that walks the streets who 

 seems to be at leisure. Even the horses catch the 

 hurrying spirit ; and everything goes tearing along 

 as if the minutes were crowded with great events. But 

 look ! See how lazily that tree swings its green top 

 in the wind — how quietly the brook goes talking to 

 itself through the forest — and how leisurely the very 

 clouds swing themselves over the evening heavens! 

 Just stand here a moment on the edge of this clearing, 

 and listen to the sounds that rise on the evening air. 

 The drowsy tinkle of the cow-bell sinks like long-for- 

 gotten music on the heart, while the scream of the 

 night-hawk far up in the heavens seems like a voice 

 from the spirit world. Its dusky form glances now 

 and then on the eye, and then is lost in the far upper 

 regions, while his cry pierces clear and shrill through 

 the gloom, telling where his pinion still floats him on- 

 ward. The smoke of the clearing wreaths in slow and 

 spiral columns skyward; while the whistle of the 

 woodman, as he shoulders his axe and wends his 

 weary way to his log hut, is the only human sound 

 that disturbs the tranquillity of the scene. And now 

 the twilight deepens over all. The fire of the distant 



