"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 He sits enthroned with all his glory?" Such were the reflections of Mayall, as he sat beneath a clustering vine that his lovely companion had trained, in his absence, to form an arch over his cottage door, and shelter him from the burning sun. The flowers of May soon began to drop their leaves, the streams had become confined within their banks, the red men from the Western lakes and Canada were again upon the war-path, and it required all the skill of a forest life to elude their pursuit. Mayall knew every sound of the night; his eye and ear had long sought in the dark; not a beast that walked the forest by night, or prowled around his cabin or camp-fire, but he could name readily by the sound of his footsteps. Mayall had remained most of the summer at his forest home, cultivating a small field that surrounded it, and capturing such game as frequented his own valley, and the streams that meandered through it abounded with fish of the finest quality for his table. Summer had quietly passed away, and the golden sun of September began to change the bright green of summer to all the varied hues of autumn. Mayall once more began to feel a desire to roam over the hills, which had long been his favorite employment; he finally resolved on visiting his more distant hunting-ground in quest of deer, which had become scarce near his home. He accordingly rose with the sun and prepared for a journey over the distant hills and valleys, which had only appeared to him in his dreams since his capture by the three Indian warriors. He took an eastern course, crossed the highlands between the Otego Creek and Susquehanna Valley, crossed the Indian war-path that passed up the Susquehanna, and thence up Cherry Valley Creek at right angles, and soon began to climb the steep ascent of the Crumhorn mountain, in the direction of a small lake situated on the top of the mountain. As he began to ascend the mountain the sun had passed the meridian, and poured its heated rays against the western slope of the mountain. Mayall, coming to a noisy little rill that spun its silver thread down the mountain side, to mingle with the water in the valley below, slaked his thirst at the stream, and, walking up to a little mound near the stream, scraped together some leaves that had fallen in wild profusion around, to carpet the mountain-side with all their varied hues, and seated himself for his noonday meal. After satisfying his hunger and again quenching his thirst at the stream, he sat down to rest; a stupor came over him, as the gentle breeze fanned the mountain-side and whispered