un is reflected by the
hill-sides, and we hear a faint but sweet music where flows the rill
released from its fetters, and the icicles are melting on the trees,
and the nut-hatch and partridge are heard and seen. The south wind
melts the snow at noon, and the bare ground appears with its withered
grass and leaves, and we are invigorated by the perfume which exhales
from it as by the scent of strong meats.

Let us go into this deserted woodman's hut, and see how he has passed
the long winter nights and the short and stormy days. For here man has
lived under this south hill-side, and it seems a civilized and public
spot. We have such associations as when the traveler stands by the
ruins of Palmyra or Hecatompolis. Singing birds and flowers perchance
have begun to appear here, for flowers as well as weeds follow in the
footsteps of man. These hemlocks whispered over his head, these
hickory logs were his fuel, and these pitch-pine roots kindled his
fire; yonder fuming rill in the hollow, whose thin and airy vapor still
ascends as busily as ever, though he is far off now, was his well.
These hemlock boughs, and the straw upon this raised platform, were his
bed, and this broken dish held his drink. But he has not been here
this season, for the phoebes built their nest upon this shelf last
summer. I find some embers left, as if he had but just gone out, where
he baked his pot of beans; and while at evening he smoked his pipe,
whose stemless bowl lies in the ashes, chatted with his only companion,
if perchance he had any, about the depth of the snow on the morrow,
already falling fast and thick without, or disputed whether the last
sound was the screech of an owl or the creak of a bough, or imagination
only; and through this broad chimney-throat, in the late winter
evening, ere he stretched himself upon the straw, he looked up to learn
the progress of the storm, and, seeing the bright stars of Cassiopeia's
chair shining brightly down upon him, fell contentedly asleep.

See how many traces from which we may learn the chopper's history.
From this stump we may guess the sharpness of his ax, and from the
slope of the stroke, on which side he stood, and whether he cut down
the tree without going round it or changing hands; and from the flexure
of the splinters, we may know which way it fell. This one chip
contains inscribed on it the whole history of the wood-chopper and of
the world. On this scrap of paper, which held his