Mayall said it so nearly resembled the Otego Creek in its wild state, shaded with the primeval forest, that it made him think of home in gone-by days. The speckled trout swarmed in the creek and its small tributaries, the feathered songsters sung their evening and morning hymn, unmolested by man. Mayall selected the most beautiful place he could find, on an elevated spot of ground, near a small rill fed by springs, where the creek formed a half circle like a new moon, on one side of his cottage. This fertile spot, lying in the bend, he intended to clear and cultivate. Breeze of the woodland and breath of the prairie, Sweet with the fragrance of flower and vine, Proclaim o'er the hill-tops and deep-shaded glens That the sweet songsters of spring have returned, And the little birds chirp, flutter and sing, And make the groves again with melody ring. Their music charms me like the voice of love, And chains me to this wild, uncultivated grove, Where spring flowers vary their beauty and bloom, And spread their morning and evening perfume. How beautiful the hills and forest land, Where Nature spreads her loam and fertile sand; Where seeds long-buried in the drifting snow Spring forth in beauty when the south winds blow. The sun, with golden beams and brighter rays, Shines forth to warm the earth and lengthen out the days. He there built his camp-fire, and reared a rude cabin to shelter his family, until he could build a more permanent residence. Here Mayall rested for a few days, charmed with the music of the woods, and the water-fowls that had stopped along the stream to lay their eggs and rear their young. Mayall then pursued his journey up the stream until he reached its utmost spring among the distant hills, and then bent his course eastward among the highlands of that region, where he found the beautiful little lakes so graphically described by the Indian, stored with fish, and covered with water-fowls during the summer season. All the wilds of the forest appeared more beautiful than he had anticipated.