h the
first rays of rosy morn, and listened to the lovely song of Nature's
harmonists, the songsters of the grove.

After Mayall left his cabin on Canada Creek he bent his course for home,
where he arrived after three tedious days' journey along an Indian path,
fording streams, and crossing hills and ravines, and was once more in
the bosom of his family. All were glad to see him, and listened with
rapture to the glowing account he gave of a country so wild and
beautiful, until Mayall reached the story of the proposed marriage of
his young son with the daughter of an Indian chief. The young man was of
the Caucasian race, young and sprightly. He declared that he would not
marry a squaw--he would live solitary and alone before he would marry
the daughter of a race he had always learned to hate, if she was allied
to the royal family of chiefs. Mayall heard his resolves with a twinkle
in his eye, and here the matter rested, whilst every preparation was
making for their now home.

Mayall was truly one of Nature's noble philosophers. When he had
resolved to leave the Valley of the Otego Creek, where he had enjoyed so
many scenes of strife and pleasure, his friends, both old and young,
gathered at his cabin for a farewell visit. In the course of the evening
the question was put to Mayall, who was the most advanced in years of
any of the company, what season of life he had found most happy. In
reply he inquired of the company if they had noticed the forest trees
that once shaded the valley. They all replied they had. He then said,
"When spring comes and the soft south wind blows up the valley, the buds
on the trees open and they are sweet with blossoms, I say how beautiful
is Spring, representing the morning of life.

The light winds are her laughter,
The murmuring brooks her song;

and when Summer comes and clothes the trees with foliage and shields me
from the rays of the flaming noonday sun, cools the wind that sighs
among the branches filled with singing birds that charm me to the grove,
I say how glorious is Summer, the noonday of life.

The sunbeams are her lovely smiles,
The rose and lily are her footsteps light;

and Autumn, in her turn, comes with golden fruit, and the leaves bear
the gorgeous frost-tints so variegated with all the glory of colors,
with the full ear, and Ceres has bound his golden sheaf, I say how
beautiful is Autumn, crowned with fruit that perfumes the surrounding
air, represen