AN AFTERNOON BY THE BIVER. 107 



literature wears an artificial and unimpor- 

 tant look when taken out-of-doors. 



Near this cabin I struck a road ("a 

 sort of road," according to my note- 

 book) through the woods, following which I 

 shortly came to a grave-yard, or rather to a 

 bunch of graves, for there was no inclosure, 

 nor even a clearing. One grave — or it 

 may have been a tiny family lot — was sur- 

 rounded by a curb of stone. The others, 

 with a single exception, were marked only 

 by low mounds of gravel. The one excep- 

 tion was a grave with a head-board, — the 

 grave of " Little Theodosia," a year and 

 some months old. '' Theodosia !" — even 

 into a windowless cabin a baby brings ro- 

 mance. Under the name and the two dates 

 was this legend: " She is happy." Of ten 

 inscriptions on marble monuments nine will 

 be found less simply appropriate. 



By a circuitous course the wood road 

 brought me to a larger cabin, in a larger 

 clearing. Here a pleasant-spoken, neigh- 

 borly woman, with a child in her arms, 

 called off her dog, and pointed out a path 

 beyond a pair of bars. That path, she 

 said, would carry me to the river, — to the 



