wood-road.  My companions at first could see no trace of it; but knowing that a casual wood-road cut in winter, when there was likely to be two or three feet of snow on the ground, would present only the slightest indications to the eye in summer, I looked a little closer, and could make out a mark or two here and there.  The larger trees had been avoided, and the axe used only on the small saplings and underbrush, which had been lopped off a couple of feet from the ground.  By being constantly on the alert, we followed it till near the top of the mountain; but, when looking to see it “tilt” over the other side, it disappeared altogether.  Some stumps of the black cherry were found, and a solitary pair of snow-shoes was hanging high and dry on a branch, but no further trace of human hands could we see.  While we were resting here a couple of hermit thrushes, one of them with some sad defect in his vocal powers which barred him from uttering more than a few notes of his song, gave voice to the solitude of the place.  This was the second instance in which I have observed a song-bird with apparently some organic defect in its instrument.  The other case was that of a bobolink, which, hover in mid-air and inflate its throat as it might, could only force out a few incoherent notes.  But the bird in each case presented this striking contrast to human examples of the kind, that it was apparently just as proud of itself, and just as well satisfied with its performance, as were its more successful rivals.

After deliberating some time over a pocket compass which I carried, we decided upon our course, and held on to the west.  The descent was very gradual.  Traces of bear and deer were noted at different points, but not a live animal was seen.

About four o’clock we reached the bank of a stream flowing west.  Hail to the Beaverkill! and we pushed on along its banks.  The trout were plenty, and rose quickly to the hook; but we held on our way, designing to go into camp about six o’clock.  Many inviting places, first on one bank, then on the other, made us linger, till finally we reached a smooth, dry place overshadowed by balsam and hemlock, where the creek bent around a little flat, which was so entirely to our fancy that we unslung our knapsacks at once.  While my companions were cutting wood and making other preparations for the night, it fell to my lot, as the most successful angler, to provide the trout for supper and breakfast.  How shall I describe that wild, beautiful stream, with features so like those of all other mountain streams?  And yet, as I saw it in the deep twilight of those woods on that June afternoon, with its steady, even flow, and its tranquil, many-voiced murmur, it made an impression upon my mind distinct and peculiar, fraught in an eminent degree with the charm of seclusion and remoteness.  The solitude was perfect, and I felt that strangeness and insignificance which the civilized man must always feel when opposing himself to such a vast scene of