The stream, which near Glenalta is comparatively tame, though sweetly fanciful, assumes a bolder aspect at the retreat, and dashes over fragments of broken rock, which are richly clothed with fern and ivy, and start from masses of holly, and other brushwood, that grow luxuriantly down at each side, to the verge of our mountain brook, which makes a circuit round the beech, so as to render the _velvet cushion_ on which it stands almost a little island. As the bleak heath-covered hill rises in every direction, you could fancy yourself to have reached a fertile oasis in the midst of a desert. Nothing of animated life appeared in view except two young goats that had ventured down the precipice, and the silence was only broken by the rush of waters. Frederick and I stood quite transfixed; but when our first exclamations of wonder and delight had subsided, we determined on exploring farther, and passing round the tree we scrambled to the other side, and found a rude seat of stone, over which a tuft of alders and mountain-ash had formed a roof impenetrable to the sun. A variety of the beautiful orchis, cowslip, and primrose tribes intermixed with wild violets of the most brillant purple, enameled the ground, and the softest moss lined every part of this sylvan niche with refreshing verdure. We sat down in a perfect ecstacy, then pulled bundles of flowers, drank at the stream, and were indulging in all the luxury of our good fortune, when something white struck my eye, clung into the root of an old hazle which stood a little below us. I pointed it out to Frederick, who immediately jumped down the rock, and found a bit of paper rolled round a pencil. It was torn, and had been injured by wet, having evidently lain for a long time in its concealment. The holly which grows so abundantly all over the rocks, had furnished its evergreen protection so as to save the paper from melting away, and the weight of the pencil, round which it was tightly wrapped, had contributed with the tangled roots, to prevent its being carried away by the wind. We eagerly unfolded our mysterious prize, and with some difficulty decyphered, at last completely, and in mamma's hand-writing, the following lines: Inscribed upon thy polished rind, That name was once engraved, Which, traced upon my heart I find, The wreck that grief has saved. Nor ruthless time, nor cankering care, Hath swept that sacred line; The perfect record lingers there, Carved on the faithful shrine. Yes, and within thy beechen breast, Sweet sympathy conceals The characters that once confessed, Thy bark no more reveals. Thy glossy fane now furrowed o'er, Protects from wandering gaze That name adored, which never more Thy jealous love betrays. Thy roughened form,--my time-worn cheek, Alike refuse to tell The signs that idlers vainly seek Within this leafy dell.