See how many traces from which we may learn the chopper's history. From this stump we may guess the sharpness of his ax, and from the slope of the stroke, on which side he stood, and whether he cut down the tree without going round it or changing hands; and from the flexure of the splinters, we may know which way it fell. This one chip contains inscribed on it the whole history of the wood-chopper and of the world. On this scrap of paper, which held his sugar or salt perchance, or was the wadding of his gun, sitting on a log in the forest, with what interest we read the tattle of cities, of those larger huts, empty and to let, like this, in High Streets and Broadways. WALT WHITMAN. THE MIRACLES OF NATURE. [From _Leaves of Grass_.] To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle, Every inch of space is a miracle, Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same, Every cubic foot of the interior swarms with the same. * * * * * * * * To me the sea is a continual miracle, The fishes that swim--the rocks--the motion of the waves--the ships with men in them, What stranger miracles are there? * * * * * * * * I was thinking the day most splendid, till I saw what the not-day exhibited; I was thinking this globe enough, till there tumbled upon me myriads of other globes; O, how plainly I see now that this life cannot exhibit all to me--as the day cannot; O, I see that I am to wait for what will be exhibited by death. * * * * * * * * O Death! O, the beautiful touch of Death, soothing and benumbing a few moments, for reasons. * * * * * * * * The earth never tires, The earth is rude, silent, incomprehensible at first-- Nature is rude and incomprehensible at first; Be not discouraged--keep on--there are divine things, well enveloped; I swear to you there are divine things more beautiful than words can tell. O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN! O captain! my captain! our fearful trip is done; The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won; The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring: But O heart! heart! heart! Leave you not the little spot Where on the deck my captain lies, Fallen cold and dead. O captain! my captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up--for you the flag is flung--for you the bugle trills; For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths--for you the shores a-crowding; For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; O captain! dear father! This arm I push beneath you; It is some dream that on the deck You've fallen cold and dead.