22 
feet, beneath. The innumerable crooked branches pre- 
sent quite a fantastic appearance; for the long moss, in many 
places, hangs in festoons from one limb to another, curi- 
ously gilt with the fiery tints of the setting sun. But what 
strikes my feelings more than all, is the solitariness of 
nature. In these wild regions all is mute as death—the 
numerous feathered tribes that abound in the regions of 
civilization are here almost unseen—not a sound is heard 
from any animated thing—the wind and the waterfall, 
alone, seem to have being. To one bred up in the busy 
scenes of a city, it seems, indeed, like death. 
I said that the creatures of the woods could have sport 
unharmed, but I believe there is no place where the wily 
hunter does not pursue them; for I yesterday chanced to 
fall in with one who had lived to hoary age amongst them, 
numbering the deaths of some hundred Deer, Bears, and 
other animals, that his unerring rifle had brought down. 
We soon became acquainted, and agreed to take an excur- 
sion next day—and at early dawn J was awoke with 
“Come, Hunter, its time to be a moving.’’ The appellation 
was to me quite flattering, for I had never been on a hunt 
in my life. We were off before day-light, and reached our 
ground just as the sun began to gild, with a pale yellow 
light, the abrupt side of the mountain opposite our path. 
We passed on to the bottom, and crossed the black, rolling 
Mahanoy, hurrying on, torrent-like, over its rocky bed. 
Gaining the opposite side, we had to make our passage 
through a swampy piece of ground, tangled with brush, 
and underwood, and fallen trees. We then separated, — 
the old hunter taking the right, his comrade the left, and 
myself the centre. Stepping silently and cautiously along, 
we pursued our course—‘ Still Hunting,”’ as they call 
it—the dogs being kept close in behind us, and not allowed 
to go out. We had passed on an hour or more in this way, 
through woods that had been annually burnt out by the 
hunters to keep down the undergrowth,—when, on a sud- 
den, a sound new to me, but instantly understood, of the 
quick bounding of a Deer, struck my ear. I stopped, and 
found from its increasing loudness, the animal was coming 
directly towards me! All on the alert, I expected to 
signalize myself, and win the appellation of Hunter, that 
the old man had given me; but my hopes were dashed— 
for the heavy sound of his hoofs, as at each bound he 
struck the earth, changed in an instant, for he had caught 
my scent, and altered his course. In another moment, 
the crack of my companion’s rifle, on the left, told me he 
had gone in that direction. On coming up to him, I found 
he had taken a chance shot, whilst running, and missed. 
Patience is the hunter’s motto,—so again we went, care- 
fully and silently on, not rustling a leaf if it could be 
avoided. We had now entered a thick hemlock groye,— 
THE CABINET OF NATURAL HISTORY, 
a rough, hilly piece of ground, with two or three rivulets 
running through it, when, again, the smart crack of the 
rifle was heard—/ook out, was the cry—the animal was 
wounded, and coming in my direction; he however turned, 
and took the course of one of the rivulets, making for the 
creek, to elude the dogs. After an hour’s search, we could 
discover no trace of him; still the old hunter would not 
give up, persuaded that he was secreted in the tangled 
swamp. Perseveringly we hunted the whole spot, some- 
times up to the waist in water, at others clambering 
amongst fallen trees and bushes. A quick sign from the 
hunter stopped us; his practised ear caught a low, wailing 
sound—again it was repeated, and turning towards the spot 
from whence it came, I saw through the bushes, lying 
crouched in a hollow, formed by the upturned roots of a 
fallen tree, a sight that, for a moment, brought a painful 
feeling to the heart. There lay the wounded dam, her 
head turned over on her side, and beside her stood a 
young fawn. Game, however, was our object. I kept 
down the kindly feelings of nature, and cautiously raising 
my piece, I sent the deadly bullet through her head. The 
young thing bounded off, but in a moment came back, 
bleating after its lost parent, and followed the party home. 
The old hunter was touched with pity at its fate, and he 
continues to nurse it with a kindness and fondness that 
proves what the old man says—that from him it shall 
never part. 
Farewell, 
BEB aes 
Blue Mountains, Nov. 5th, 1831. 
én 
TO THE MEMORY OF ALEXANDER WILSON, THE ORNITHO- 
LOGIST. 
He asked to be laid where the birds might sing 
Their matins around his tomb, 
Where the earliest grass of the year might spring, 
And the earliest flowers bloom. 
For Nature had filled his noble breast, 
With a love that could not die; 
And he thought it were sweetest to sink to rest, 
Where, in life, he was wont to lie. 
’Mid the beautiful creatures that tenant the wild, 
His brightest days were passed, 
And the voices he loved, when a frolic child, 
Were the voices he loved to the last. 
