IN THE MINING DISTRICT 231 



been blasted by a scorching fire. Many lay almost buried 

 under the coppice, covered with moss and vines, and— 

 according to the eternal law of nature— returning to 

 earth. 



The grandeur of the scenery, the solemn unbroken still- 

 ness invited graver thoughts, and so I fell involuntarily 

 into one of those reveries, to give way to which has ever 

 been an inveterate tendency with me from early youth. 

 With my eyes on the ground before me I sauntered along, 

 faster or slower, nolens volens, keeping time with the 

 train of thoughts as they were influenced by heart or 

 head. I did not notice that the shadows of the old trees 

 grew longer and longer as they fell on the intricate maze 

 of undergrowth, when a sudden turn of the road brought 

 me to a clearing, and I beheld as lovely a landscape as 

 the pen of a Lessing or the brush of a Behrendsen can 

 produce — the most gentle idyll which the pure fancy of a 

 Voss can conceive or describe in poetry. In the middle 

 of a small narrow valley or rather meadow, watered by 

 a beautiful rivulet, stood a log house, which, however, 

 did not look as if the ax of a back woodsman had had 

 much to do with its construction; or as if it had been put 

 up only for the purpose of affording shelter. It looked 

 rather as if it had been built by a skilful carpenter for 

 the park of some wealthy artist. The ground around the 

 house was neatly fenced in with pickets, and well stocked 

 with poultry and pigs, while near by in the meadow— 

 also surrounded by a good fence— were half a dozen cows, 

 whose bells were tinkling at every motion. The shades of 

 evening had settled over the larger part of the little val- 

 ley, including the spot where I stood as if spellbound on 

 beholding the beautiful view before me, but the house 

 itself and the small open space in front of it lay yet in 

 the light of the setting sun, whose last rays were breaking 

 through the tops of the firs and cedars which covered 

 the surrounding hills. A cedar log, roughly trimmed by 

 an ax, lay in front of the house, and was at this moment 

 the center of one of the most picturesque groups I ever 

 beheld. 



