orning for their fathers and
husbands, who would never return again to their homes.

His wife and children hailed him with joy, but nothing they could say
seemed worth his notice; he seemed to be wrapped in deep meditation--not
a smile was seen to light up his sunburnt countenance. No one could read
the secret of his meditation.

Autumn quietly wore away, and Mayall confined his hunting excursions to
his own quiet valley, where game appeared quite plenty, until the snows
of winter began to whiten the hills. He then remained most of the time
at home, excepting now and then, when the weather was favorable, he made
an excursion up or down the valley in quest of deer, to supply his
family with fresh venison. The deep snows had drifted over the war-path
of the red man, and Mayall had enjoyed a quiet season, spending most of
his time by a warm winter fire.

At length winter began to resign his sway, and took up his march for his
northern icy throne. The rays of the sun began to dissolve the deep
snow, the southern breeze began to whisper among the dumb branches of
the forest trees, the warm rains pattered down, the little mountain
streams were swollen, and noisily hurrying down to pour their tribute
into the Otego, which overflowed its banks and inundated the lowlands
along the streams, and Spring began to put on her glorious robes of
beauty. The violet opened its young leaves with all its youthful blush,
the honeysuckle displayed its glistening cups of gold, and the forest
trees were again clothed with living green, while every tree that bore
the fruits of Autumn was dressed with Nature's fairest wreaths, which
art can scarcely imitate. The feathered choir had fluttered up the
valley, borne on the southern breeze, to cheer the woodland with their
song.

Such was the earthly Paradise of Mayall. Not all the halls of state,
with their artificial splendor; not all the retinue of kings, with
golden crowns, surrounded with warriors glittering with burnished gold
and ornamented with diamonds--all these faded into insignificance, when
compared with his green forest home.

"What city," said Mayall, "with all its towers and domes, can compare
with these sylvan shades and waving arches, the music of these
waterfalls, and that of the tall pine's quaking cone standing on its
high and lofty throne? And what music can compare with the notes of
these feathered songsters, that morning and evening hymn the praise of
Nature's God, where