and then foaming and dancing off, into the meadow below.

Many of the buildings have changed their old fashioned coats of red
for the more modern one of white, which is the case with our own old
homestead. Opposite the house, or across the way, as we used to call
it (for the road was between), stood, what was ever called, the woods.
Here, in their season, we gathered the largest whortleberries, the
best walnuts, and the nicest black birch that were to be found all
the country round. And when we had wearied our limbs, and filled our
baskets, how often have we pulled over the tops of the smaller trees,
and seating ourselves upon some slender branch, enjoyed a real
juvenile ride upon horseback, each one having a particular tree
designated by the name of a horse.

Immediately opposite the house, stood a high hill, composed of jagged
rocks, behind which the sun ever sank to his cosy bed in the west, and
where I have watched the forked lightning play as the blackened cloud
gathered together, ominous of a portending storm, while the distant
thunder murmured behind their eternal summit. This stands the same,
and as you glance down the other side, you see the broad, black
river, still rolling at its base. But the woods--the bright green
woods--where are they? Echo answers, "where?" Supplanting the place
is a young thrifty orchard, and at the base of the hill is a finely
cultivated piece of land, and there is nothing but the everlasting
hills to tell us of the dear spot where we wandered in the halcyon
days of childhood; we cannot even exclaim with Cowper--

"I sat on the trees under which I had played."

Dear old trees! methinks, even now, I can hear your music, when fanned