You can spend days and weeks around the Raquette, sailing over its beautiful waters, penetrating its deep and quiet bays, taking trout at every cast of your line, aud killing a deer whenever you choose to put forth the effort. The sun rises on you from this green wilderness fresh as when it first looked on creation, and sets as lovingly in the mass of green, on the western slope, as though it had seen no sin and suffering in its course.

Let the light canoe rock awhile on the tiny waves that this glorious western breeze, redolent with the kiss of leaves, and pure from its long dalliance with nature, has set in motion. The shadows are flitting

like sweet visions along that far-stretching slope of brilliant green, and disappear one after another over the summit. Yonder is a deer walking up and down the shore in the water, ever and anon lifting his antlered head, lest the garish day might reveal him to some lurking foe; and lo, there comes his consort, her white breast shining amid the leaves, as she also steps forth to drink. And here, out of this narrow cove, completely enveloped in bushes that sweep the water, and reeds that grow almost across its entrance -which seems to lurk in perpetual ambush on the shore-a wild duck from the Atlantic is leading forth her brood which she has hatched in this far-sequestered spot. What a chattering they make as they swim after the proud matron who is pushing boldly for a point near by. They move in the form of the figure V inverted, and the still water of the cove assumes the same shape clear to the shore. But the ever-watchful mother has caught sight of our boat, and prattling to her offspring, is off with incredible speed. She knows her young cannot fly, and hence

will not rise herself from the water. True to her maternal instinct, she is willing to bide the worst, but both wings and fee of the whole chattering squadron

MATERNAL INSTINCT.

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are in full play, making the lake foam where they pass. There, you are once more in the reeds, settling yourselves with a vast deal of self-congratulation into composure again, while your black heads and eyes. turn and nod to catch the first approach of danger. Poor things, you are safe here; but next fall every rod of your flight from Montauk Point to Barnegat Bay, will be disturbed by the shot of the sportsman, and scarcely a pair of you will be left to revisit this far retreat again!

Vain dreaming this, I know, but the listless mood is upon me, and I cannot pull a strong and steady and practical stroke. The waves are out on a frolic-the deer stand idly lashing their tails in the water-the great, green forest just rustles to show that the leaves are all at play-the clouds move lazily across the sky and all nature seems dreaming in this fresh noon-day-and why should I not drink in the influence of the scene? I know a hard afternoon's toil is before me, and a bivouack on the ground at night, yet I seem enchained here by beauty. Sad thoughts and gentle feelings rise one after another an indistinguishable throng, and strange memories long since buried, come back with overpowering freshness. Here the

great world of strife and toil speaks not, and its fierce struggles for gain seem the madness of the maniac. You do not hate it—you pity it, and pity yourself that you ever loved it. The good you had forgotten returns, for nature wakes up the dead divinity within you, and rouses the soul to purer, nobler purposes. Besides, all things are free about me—the leap of the wave-the dash of the mountain stream-the flight of the eagle-the song of the wind, and the swaying of trees-all, all are free. Unmarred, unstained, the bright and happy world is spread out in my sight:

"Ah, when the wild turmoil of this wearisome life,
With its scenes of oppression, corruption, and strife;
The proud man's power, and the base man's fear-
The scorner's laugh, and the sufferer's tear-
And malice, and meanness, and falsehood, and folly,
Dispose me to musing and dark melancholy :
When my bosom is full, and my thoughts are high,
And my soul is sick with the bondman's sigh-
Oh, then, there is freedom, and joy, and pride,

Afar through the 'forest' alone to ride,

With the death-fraught firelock in my hand,

The only law of the desert land."

But to return to practical matters: yonder comes

BEACH AND WOODS;

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the boat of Woods and Beach, the two solitary dwellers of this region. It is rather a singular coincidence that the only two inhabitants of this wilderness should be named Woods and Beach. I should not wonder if the next comers should be called "Hemlock" and "Pine." These two men have killed hundreds of deer since they settled down here together, and a great many moose. Their leisure hours they spend in preparing the furs they have taken, and in tanning the deer skins, of which they make mittens. They need something during the long winter days and evenings for employment. When the snow is five feet deep on the level, and the ice three and four feet thick on the lake, and not the sign of a human footstep any where to be seen, the smoke of their cabin rises in the frosty air like a column in the desertenhancing instead of relieving the solitude. pitch pine supplies the place of candles, and the deep, red light from their humble window, at night, must present a singular contrast with the rude waste of snow, and the leafless forest around them.

The

When a quantity of these mittens are made up, Beach straps on his snow shoes, and with his trusty rifle in his hand, carries them out to the settlements,