egard it in this light. I
have never looked upon this primitive homestead of the pioneer without
receiving from it an impression of romantic pleasure. Something seems
to impart to it an air of vague and mystic grandeur. Perhaps I
associate the picture with the frame in which it is set--the magnificent
forest that surrounds it, every aisle of which is redolent of romance.
Such a scene is suggestive of hunter lore and legend--of perils by flood
and field, always pleasant to be remembered--of desperate deeds of
heroism performed by gallant backwoodsmen or their equally gallant
antagonists--those red warriors who once strode proudly along the
forest-path, but whose upright forms are no longer seen under the
shadows of its trees.

Perhaps it is from reflections of this kind, that I view with interest
the clearing and cabin of the squatter; or it may be from having at one
period of my life encountered incidents, in connection with such a
scene, of a character never to be forgotten.

In spring this picture is transformed--suddenly as by the shifting of a
panoramic view; or, as upon the stage, the Harlequin and brilliant
Columbine emerge from the sober disguisement of their dominoes. If in
winter the scene might be termed rude or commonplace, it now no longer
merits such titles. Nature has girded on her robe of green, and by the
touch of her magical wand, has toned down its rough features to an
almost delicate softness. The young maize--planted in a soil that has
lain fallow, perhaps for a thousand years--is rapidly culming upward;
and the rich sheen of the long lance-like leaves, as they bend
gracefully over, hides from view the sombre hues of the earth. The
forest trees appear with their foliage freshly expanded--some; as the
tulip-tree, the dogwood, and the white magnolia, already in the act of
inflorescence. The woods no longer maintain that monotonous silence
which they have preserved throughout the winter. The red cardinal
chatters among the cane; the blue jay screams in the pawpaw thicket,
perhaps disturbed by the gliding of some slippery snake; while the
mock-bird, regardless of such danger, from the top of the tall
tulip-tree, pours forth his matchless melody in sweet ever-varying
strain. The tiny bark of the squirrel, and the soft cooing of the
Carolinian dove, may be heard among other sounds--the latter suggestive
of earth's noblest passion, as its utterer is the emblem of devotion
itself. At night other