In spring this picture is transformed--suddenly as by the shifting of a panoramic view; or, as upon the stage, the Harlequin and brilliant Columbine emerge from the sober disguisement of their dominoes. If in winter the scene might be termed rude or commonplace, it now no longer merits such titles. Nature has girded on her robe of green, and by the touch of her magical wand, has toned down its rough features to an almost delicate softness. The young maize--planted in a soil that has lain fallow, perhaps for a thousand years--is rapidly culming upward; and the rich sheen of the long lance-like leaves, as they bend gracefully over, hides from view the sombre hues of the earth. The forest trees appear with their foliage freshly expanded--some; as the tulip-tree, the dogwood, and the white magnolia, already in the act of inflorescence. The woods no longer maintain that monotonous silence which they have preserved throughout the winter. The red cardinal chatters among the cane; the blue jay screams in the pawpaw thicket, perhaps disturbed by the gliding of some slippery snake; while the mock-bird, regardless of such danger, from the top of the tall tulip-tree, pours forth his matchless melody in sweet ever-varying strain. The tiny bark of the squirrel, and the soft cooing of the Carolinian dove, may be heard among other sounds--the latter suggestive of earth's noblest passion, as its utterer is the emblem of devotion itself. At night other sounds are heard, less agreeable to the ear: the shrill "chirrup" of cicadas and tree-toads ringing so incessantly, that only when they cease do you become conscious of their existence; the dull "gluck-gluck" of the great bullfrog; the sharp cries of the heron and _qua-bird_; and the sepulchral screech of the great horned owl. Still less agreeable might appear the fierce miaulling of the red _puma_, and the howl of the gaunt wolf; but not so to the ears of the awakened hunter, who, through the chinks of his lone cabin, listens to such sounds with a savage joy. These fierce notes are now rare and exceptional--even in the backwoods-- though, unlike the war-whoop of the Indian, they have not altogether departed. Occasionally, their echo may be heard through the aisles of the forest, but only in its deepest recesses--only in those remote river "bottoms" where the squatter delights to dwell. Even there, they are heard only at night; and in the morning give place to softer and sweeter sounds. Fancy, then, a fine morning in May--a sunshine that turns all it touches into gold--an atmosphere laden with the perfume of wild-flowers--the hum of honey-seeking bees--the song of birds commingling in sweetest melody--and you have the _mise en scene_ of a squatter's cabin on the banks of the Obion, half an hour after the rising of the sun. Can such a picture be called _commonplace_? Rather say it is enchanting.