FROM A NEW ENGLAND HILLSIDE. 3! 



rious dissolving view of valley and distant 

 hills under the warm November sun. 



From the pastures I heard the cawing of 

 the crows ; upon a tree trunk near me ham 

 mered a woodpecker ; afar through the 

 wood resounded the regular stroke of an 

 axe ; and the pleasant odour of burning 

 leaves tickled my nostril. But alas ! we 

 must sometimes pay dearly for our pleas 

 ures. Yesterday in driving along a pictu 

 resque wood road among wild and rocky 

 hills, I crossed a line of fire, fully a third 

 of a mile long, steadily marching through 

 the fallen leaves, and eating up in its path 

 shrubs and herbs, and the surface of the 

 soil itself, with the upper roots and the 

 innumerable seeds which had been shed 

 upon it and buried within it. Merely from 

 the wad from a sportsman s gun probably, 

 but it was wiping out acre after acre of 

 sylvan beauty, damaging to some extent 

 the trees themselves, and leaving an ashy 

 waste beneath them and all to make an 

 American holiday. 



Then along comes the brave woodchopper, 

 and down go the saplings and seedlings, 

 chestnut and oak, maple and beach, pine 

 and hickory, and for what? Firewood, 

 simply. Cord wood takes the place of the 



