102 LETTERS FROM THE BACKWOODS. 



barreled gun into their midst. In a good day, he 

 frequently kills a hundred birds. 



At length I strolled aAvay by myself, intending to 

 take a long semicircle through the forest and strike 

 the ocean some four or five miles distant. It was 

 one of those days in which I love to wander alone 

 ^' by stream or wave" or through the sombre autumn 

 woods, and let the poetry, the thoughtfulness, and 

 even the sadness of nature sink into my spirit. Some- 

 times I would be ankle deep in the withered leaves 

 as I strolled on, I scarcely knew or cared whither. 

 Coming at length to an arm of the sea that stretched 

 far inland, I followed it down for a mile or two to 

 the main shore. It was low tide, and so, with the aid 

 of tight boots, I was able to cross the marshes which 

 the rising sea floods, and stood at last on the smooth 

 sand beach, along which I wandered for more than a 

 mile. 



Stand here a moment with me, and look off on the 

 solemn ocean. Not a breath of air is abroad, and the 

 mighty waters spread away like an endless mirror 

 from -fonr feet. The smooth ripple comes with a slow 

 and sluggish movement, and lays its gentle lip with- 

 out a murmur on the beach ; while flocks of wild fowl 

 glance by through the hazy atmosphere, like messen- 

 gers from the distant deep, where it melts and blends 

 into the smoky horizon. Not a human habitation is 

 in sight, and, as you stand and muse, you cannot but 

 think of that other " vast ocean" in which you are 

 "to sail so soon." 



But listen a moment! Miles out on the slumbering 



