impudently into the window
of another; a woodpecker, with the general flavor of undertaking
which distinguishes that bird, withheld his sepulchral hammer from the
coffin-lid of the roof on which he was professionally engaged, as
we passed. For a moment I half regretted that I had not accepted the
invitation to the river-bed; but, the next moment, a breeze swept up the
long, dark canyon, and the waiting files of the pines beyond bent toward
me in salutation. I think my horse understood, as well as myself,
that it was the cabins that made the solitude human, and therefore
unbearable; for he quickened his pace, and with a gentle trot brought
me to the edge of the wood, and the three pines that stood like vedettes
before the Sylvester outpost.

Unsaddling my horse in the little hollow, I unslung the long riata from
the saddle-bow, and, tethering him to a young sapling, turned toward the
cabin. But I had gone only a few steps, when I heard a quick trot behind
me; and poor Pomposo, with every fibre tingling with fear, was at my
heels. I looked hurriedly around. The breeze had died away; and only
an occasional breath from the deep-chested woods, more like a long sigh
than any articulate sound, or the dry singing of a cicala in the
heated canyon, were to be heard. I examined the ground carefully for
rattlesnakes, but in vain. Yet here was Pomposo shivering from his
arched neck to his sensitive haunches, his very flanks pulsating with
terror. I soothed him as well as I could, and then walked to the edge
of the wood, and peered into its dark recesses. The bright flash of a
bird's wing, or the quick dart of a squirrel, was all I saw. I confess
it was with something of superstitious expectation that I again turned
towards the cabin. A fairy-child, attended by Titania and her train,
lying in an expensive cradle, would not have surprised me: a Sleeping
Beauty, whose awakening would have repeopled these solitudes with life
and energy, I am afraid I began to confidently look for, and would have
kissed without hesitation.

But I found none of these. Here was the evidence of my friend's
taste and refinement, in the hearth swept scrupulously clean, in the
picturesque arrangement of the fur-skins that covered the floor and
furniture, and the striped serape lying on the wooden couch. Here were
the walls fancifully papered with illustrations from "The London News;"
here was the woodcut portrait of Mr. Emerson over the chimney, quaintly
fr