vast cavities where the porcupine and
opossum have taken shelter from the cold.

My comrades, wrapped in their blankets, and stretched upon the dead
leaves, have gone to sleep. They lie with their feet to the fire, and
their heads resting in the hollow of their saddles. The horses,
standing around a tree, and tied to its lower branches, seem also to
sleep. I am awake and listening. The wind is high up, whistling among
the twigs and causing the long white streamers to oscillate. It utters
a wild and melancholy music. There are few other sounds, for it is
winter, and the tree-frog and cicada are silent. I hear the crackling
knots in the fire, the rustling of dry leaves swirled up by a stray
gust, the "coo-whoo-a" of the white owl, the bark of the raccoon, and,
at intervals, the dismal howling of wolves. These are the nocturnal
voices of the winter forest. They are savage sounds; yet there is a
chord in my bosom that vibrates under their influence, and my spirit is
tinged with romance as I lie and listen.

The forest in autumn; still bearing its full frondage. The leaves
resemble flowers, so bright are their hues. They are red and yellow,
and golden and brown. The woods are warm and glorious now, and the
birds flutter among the laden branches. The eye wanders delighted down
long vistas and over sunlit glades. It is caught by the flashing of
gaudy plumage, the golden green of the paroquet, the blue of the jay,
and the orange wing of the oriole. The red-bird flutters lower down in
the coppice of green pawpaws, or amidst the amber leaflets of the
beechen thicket. Hundreds of tiny wings flit through the openings,
twinkling in the sun like the glancing of gems.

The air is filled with music: sweet sounds of love. The bark of the
squirrel, the cooing of mated doves, the "rat-ta-ta" of the pecker, and
the constant and measured chirrup of the cicada, are all ringing
together. High up, on a topmost twig, the mocking-bird pours forth his
mimic note, as though he would shame all other songsters into silence.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

I am in a country of brown barren earth and broken outlines. There are
rocks and clefts and patches of sterile soil. Strange vegetable forms
grow in the clefts and hang over the rocks. Others are spheroidal in
shape, resting upon the surface of the parched earth. Others rise
vertically to a great height, like carved and fluted co