THE FIRE ISLANDS. 99 



LETTER XV. 



THE FIRE ISLANDS. 



I WILL trouble you with only this letter from the 

 Eire Islands. The morning after our unsuccessful 

 deer expedition, the huntsmen started out again. It 

 was an Indian summer day in appearance and tem- 

 perature. Not a breath of air shook the withered 

 leaves that drooped from the branches, while the 

 smoky atmosphere drew a veil over the sky and earth, 

 giving a soft and dreamy aspect to nature. It was 

 one of those days when sound is transmitted to a 

 great distance, and the whole concave seems a great 

 whispering gallery, save that while it transmits it 

 also dulls every sound. Again I stood in the depths 

 of the forest beside the stream ; but how changed 

 had everything become. There was no motion, no 

 wild swaying to and fro of the distracted branches, 

 no struggle of the old trees to keep their ancient 

 foundations. The stream slipped by with a gentle 

 murmur, kissing the flags that stooped over it, while 

 even the light tread of the "chick-a-dee-dee" could be 

 heard on the dry leaves. Not a cloud was on the 

 sky, while the sun looked drowsily down through the 



