For some years after, a wan, gaunt, and ragged wretch might have been seen toiling and digging incessantly along the range of the Wolf Hills. The fire of lunacy burned in his eye, he spoke to no one, and never uttered language, save in his insane self-communings. The neighbors universally shunned him, and no charitable voice soothed his misery. He dwelt in the gloomy cave by the run, where the unholy rites of Rudenfranck had been celebrated. His sole occupation consisted in a continual search after hidden treasure. Seven years had elapsed since the occurrences above narrated, were reported to have taken place, when a hunter, pursuing his game among the Wolf Hills, accidentally discovered the dead body of a man, shockingly torn and mangled, at the entrance of the cavern of the recluse. It was the corpse of Adolf Westerbok, the Silver Digger of the Wolf Hills. NOTE. This legendary tale, we learn, is founded upon a superstitious tradition, still current among the backwoodsmen of Pennsylvania. The outline of the tale is preserved as far as the nature of the legend would permit. The cavern is yet to be seen, where the hidden treasures are supposed to have been concealed; and the hardy hunter of the mountains still regards it with fear, and prefers taking a long circuit through the woods, to passing the cavern after nightfall. The whole country, indeed, is full of such traditions, which only require the pen of a Scott to be perpetuated, alike for the amusement and wonder of posterity. Let no man say that America is without legendary lore, let no one deny that she affords materials for poetry! Every hill; every stream; every valley; every plain has its own wild story of border troubles, or Indian traditions. When shall _our_ minstrel arise to hallow them in undying song?—Eds. Mt. Savage, Md. January, 1841. * * * * * SKATING. “The winter has come, and the skaters are here.” BY GEORGE LUNT. The earth is white with gleaming snow, The lake one sheet of silver lies, Beneath the morning’s ruddy glow, The steaming vapors gently rise. Keen is the cool and frosty air, That waves the pine trees on the hill, And voiceless as a whispered prayer, Breathes down the valley clear and still. Come, ’tis an hour to stir the blood To glowing life in every vein! Up,—for the sport is keen and good Across the bright and icy plain. On each impatient foot to-day, The ringing steel again we’ll bind, And o’er the crystal plain away, We’ll leave the world and care behind. And, oh! what joy is ours to play, In rapid, round, and swift career, And snatch beneath the wintry day, One moment’s rest, and hasty cheer.