varieties of the maple, most of the noble oaks of the American forest, with the broad-leaved linden known in the parlance of the country as the basswood, mingled their uppermost branches, forming one broad and seemingly interminable carpet of foliage which stretched away towards the setting sun, until it bounded the horizon, by blending with the clouds, as the waves and the sky meet at the base of the vault of heaven.  Here and there, by some accident of the tempests, or by a caprice of nature, a trifling opening among these giant members of the forest permitted an inferior tree to struggle upward toward the light, and to lift its modest head nearly to a level with the surrounding surface of verdure.  Of this class were the birch, a tree of some account in regions less favored, the quivering aspen, various generous nut-woods, and divers others which resembled the ignoble and vulgar, thrown by circumstances into the presence of the stately and great.  Here and there, too, the tall straight trunk of the pine pierced the vast field, rising high above it, like some grand monument reared by art on a plain of leaves.

It was the vastness of the view, the nearly unbroken surface of verdure, that contained the principle of grandeur.  The beauty was to be traced in the delicate tints, relieved by graduations of light and shade; while the solemn repose induced the feeling allied to awe.

“Uncle,” said the wondering, but pleased girl, addressing her male companion, whose arm she rather touched than leaned on, to steady her own light but firm footing, “this is like a view of the ocean you so much love!”

“So much for ignorance, and a girl’s fancy, Magnet,” —­a term of affection the sailor often used in allusion to his niece’s personal attractions; “no one but a child would think of likening this handful of leaves to a look at the real Atlantic.  You might seize all these tree-tops to Neptune’s jacket, and they would make no more than a nosegay for his bosom.”

“More fanciful than true, I think, uncle.  Look thither; it must be miles on miles, and yet we see nothing but leaves! what could one behold, if looking at the ocean?”

“More!” returned the uncle, giving an impatient gesture with the elbow the other touched, for his arms were crossed, and the hands were thrust into the bosom of a vest of red cloth, a fashion of the times, —­ “more, Magnet! say, rather, what less?  Where are your combing seas, your blue water, your rollers, your breakers, your whales, or your waterspouts, and your endless motion, in this bit of a forest, child?”

“And where are your tree-tops, your solemn silence, your fragrant leaves, and your beautiful green, uncle, on the ocean?”

“Tut, Magnet! if you understood the thing, you would know that green water is a sailor’s bane.  He scarcely relishes a greenhorn less.”

“But green trees are a different thing.  Hist! that sound is the air breathing among the leaves!”