78 LETTERS FROM THE BACKWOODS, 



thing sad in thinking of those two trees thus falling 

 all alone on a still and beautiful morning, foretelling 

 a coming tempest. Sombre omens these, and myste- 

 rious, as becomes the untrodden forest. 



Mitchell had shot an immense fish-hawk, breaking 

 only the tip of its wing, so as to prevent it from 

 flying. He brought it and set it down before the fire, 

 when the fearless bird drew himself proudly up and 

 steadily faced us down, without attempting to run 

 away. His savage eye betokened no fear, and when 

 any one of us approached him, his leg would be lifted 

 and his talons expanded ready to strike. I was never 

 so struck with the boldness of a bird in my life. At 

 length Mitchell caught him and placed him on a rock 

 by the edge of the lake. For a moment the noble bird 

 forgot his wound, and, spreading his broad wings, 

 leaped from his resting-place. But the broken pinion 

 refused to carry him heavenward, and he fell heavily 

 in the water. I saw Mitchell bring his rifle to his 

 shoulder, and the next moment a bullet crushed 

 through the head of the poor creature, and its sufi'er- 

 ings w^ere over. 



Such are the incidents of a life in the woods, and 

 thus do the days and nights pass — not without mean- 

 ing or instruction. Not merely the physical man is 

 strengthened, but the intellectual also, by these long 

 furloughs from close application, and this intimate 

 companionship with nature. A man cannot move in 

 the forest without thinking of God, for all that meets 

 his eye is just as it left his mighty hand. The old 



