48 LETTERS FROM THE BACKWOODS. 



roots, and then hitcliing a rope to the tops, pulled 

 them over with oxen. And thus thej work and toil 

 away here in the depths of the forest, all heedless of 

 the great world without. How strange it seems, to 

 behold men thus occupied, living contentedly, fifty 

 miles from a post-office or village, and hear their 

 inquiries about the war with Mexico, asking of events 

 that had been quite forgotten in New York! They 

 have their ambition, but its object is a few acres of 

 w^ell-cultivated land, or the reputation of a good 

 hunter; and they have their troubles, but they are 

 born and die in the bosom of the forest. Men toiling 

 for a bare subsistence, for the coarsest fare, poorest 

 dwellings, and meager comforts of civilized life, al- 

 ways set me musing, and this veiled life of ours grows 

 still more mysterious, and man, godlike, immortal 

 man, strangely like a mere animal. 



But on the broad lake, before a brisk breeze, and 

 bending to my oars, these thoughts soon left me. 

 The tiny waves rocked our cockle-shell of a boat like 

 a plaything amid the bubbles, while a bush I had 

 erected in the centre made it fairly foam through the 

 water as the swift blast came down through the 

 mountain gorges. Far away to the southwest, the 

 golden sky shone glorious, and over its illuminated 

 depths the fragmentary clouds went trooping as if 

 joyous with life, ^while to the northwest, towards 

 which our frail craft was driving, the heavens were 

 black as midnight, and the retiring storm-cloud 

 looked dark and fierce as wrath, retreating though 

 still unconquered. The sun was hastening to the 



