Letters to a Friend 



Among the Hills of Bear Creek, 



seven miles southeast of Burkesville, Kentucky, 



September 9th, [1867.] 



I left Indianapolis last Monday and have 

 reached this point by a long, weary, round 

 about walk. I walked from Louisville a dis 

 tance of 170 miles, and my feet are sore, but I 

 am paid for all my toil a thousand times over. 



The sun has been among the treetops for 

 more than an hour, and the dew is nearly all 

 taken back, and the shade in these hill basins 

 is creeping away into the unbroken strongholds 

 of the grand old forests. 



I have enjoyed the trees and scenery of 

 Kentucky exceedingly. How shall I ever tell 

 of the miles and miles of beauty that have 

 been flowing into me in such measure? These 

 lofty curving ranks of bobbing, swelling hills, 

 these concealed valleys of fathomless verdure, 

 and these lordly trees with the nursing sun 

 light glancing in their leaves upon the outlines 

 of the magnificent masses of shade embosomed 

 among their wide branches, these are cut 

 into my memory to go with me forever. 

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