oked on with admiration: one might have
thought it a general illumination of the forest, as the flames spread
in long winding lines, gaining upon the dark wood every moment, up
and down, and across the hill, collecting here and there with greater
brilliancy about some tall old tree, which they hung with fire like
a giant lustre. But the next day the sight was a sad one indeed: the
deceitful brilliancy of the flames no longer pleased the eye: wreaths
of dull smoke and hot vapors hung over the blighted trees, and
wherever the fire had wandered there the fresh June foliage was
utterly blasted. That night we could no longer take pleasure in the
spectacle; we could no longer fancy a joyous illumination. We seemed
rather to behold the winding coils of some fiery serpent gliding
farther and farther on its path of evil: a rattling, hissing sound
accompanying its movement, the young trees trembling and quivering
with agitation in the heated current which proclaimed its approach.
The fresh flowers were all blighted by its scorching breath, and with
its forked tongue it fed upon the pride of the forest, drying up the
life of great trees, and without waiting to consume them, hurrying
onward to blight other groves, leaving a blackened track of ruin
wherever it passed.

Some fifty years since a fire of this kind is said to have spread
until it inclosed within its lines the lake and the valley, as far as
one could see, surrounding the village with a network of flame, which
at night was quite appalling in its aspect. The danger, however, was
not so great as it appeared, as there was everywhere a cleared space
between the burning forest and the little town. At times, however,
very serious accidents result from these fires: within a few days we
have heard of a small village, in the northern part of the State,
in St. Lawrence county, entirely destroyed in this way, the flames
gaining so rapidly upon the poor people that they were obliged to
collect their families and cattle in boats and upon rafts, in the
nearest pools and streams.

Of course, more or less mischief is always done; the wood and timber
already cut are destroyed, fences are burnt, many trees are killed,
others are much injured, the foliage is more or less blighted for the
season; the young plants are killed, and the earth looks black and
gloomy. Upon the whole, however, it is surprising that no more harm is
done. On the occasion of the fire referred to in these woods, we f