forms of the wild creatures which so lately roamed over these hills, and we are half persuaded that the timid doe or the wily catamount is again drawing near to drink from the fountain at our feet—we hear the crash of a dry branch, or the rustling of leaves, and we start as though expecting to see the painted warrior, armed with flint-headed arrows and tomahawk of stone, gliding through the wood toward us. It was but yesterday that such beings peopled the forest, beings with as much of life as runs within our own veins, who drank their daily draught from the springs we now call our own; yesterday they were here, to-day scarce a vestige of their existence can be pointed out among us.
Friday, 31st.—Thunder-shower this afternoon, everything growing finely. The blackberry-bushes, very common here, are coming into flower along the road-sides and fences. The white thorn is also blooming; there is a rustic elegance about its clusters which leads one readily to admit its claims as a favorite of the poets—the form of this flower is so simple, and the colored heads of the stamens are so daintily pretty; it has been opening for several days, and many of the bushes, or trees rather, are in full flower. In this hilly climate, it blossoms late, still it saves its credit as the flower of May; in the rural districts of England, “the May” is said to be a common name for the hawthorn.
Walked about the shrubbery with the hope of finding a rose open, but our search was fruitless. Last year a few of the early kind bloomed in May, but the present season is more backward. With us, the roses scarcely belong to spring, we should rather date our summer from their unfolding; the bushes were never more full of buds, however, and some of these are beginning to disclose their coloring; but the greater number are still closely
