Numbers of these animals are still found in the State, particularly in the northern mountainous counties. They are also occasionally seen to the southward among the Catskills, where they were formerly so numerous as to have given a name to the stream and the mountain whence it flows. The Dutch called this creature "Het Cat," or "Het Catlos," which, says Judge Benson, was "also their name for the domestic cat." Kater is the male; but in the "Benson Memoir" the word is not spelt with the double a, Kaaterskill, as we frequently see it nowadays, when few of us speak Dutch. Catskill, or Katerskill, however, would appear to be equally correct, and the last has the merit of greater peculiarity. The old Hollanders had very formidable ideas of these animals, which they believed at first to be lions, from their skins and the representations of the Indians. Their color is tawny, or reddish gray. When young they are spotted; but these marks are supposed to disappear when the animal sheds its hair for the first time. The tail is dark at the extremity; the ears are blackish without, light within. The largest panther preserved among us is found in the Museum of Utica, and was killed by a hunter in Herkimer county; it measured eleven feet three inches in length. Their usual length is from seven to ten feet.

They are said generally to frequent ledges of rocks inaccessible to man, and called panther ledges by the hunters; but they will often wander far for food. They are decidedly nocturnal, and rarely move by daylight. They prey upon deer and all the lesser quadrupeds. They seem rather shy of man in general, but are very capable of destroying him when aroused. A man was killed by a "catamount," in this county, some fifty years ago. Probably, if this creature prove really to be a panther, it has strayed from the Catskills.

Saturday, 2d.–Very mild. Unusually dark at eight o'clock. High wind, with heavy, spring-like showers. About noon the sky cleared, and the afternoon was delightful, with a high southwest wind and a bright sky. A high wind is very pleasant now and then, more especially when such are not common. This evening we enjoyed the breeze very much, as it flew rustling through the naked branches, tossing the evergreen limbs of old pines and hemlocks, and driving bright clouds rapidly across the heavens. Despite the colorless face of the country, everything looked cheerful, as though the earth were sailing on a prosperous voyage before a fresh, fair breeze.

Monday, 4th.–Charming day. Light sprinkling of snow in the night; but it has already disappeared. The grass on the lawn is quite green again. A light fall of snow, without a hard frost, always brightens the grass, perhaps more even than a spring shower. It often snows here without freezing.

Strange as it may appear, the Duck-hawk of this part of the world is no other than the full brother of the famous Peregrine Falcon of Europe. It is said to be only the older birds which wander about, and as they live to a great age, some of them have been noted travellers. In 1793, a hawk of this kind was caught at the Cape of Good Hope, with a collar bearing the date of 1610 and the name of King James of England; so that it must have been at least 183 years old, and have travelled thousands of miles. Another, belonging to Henri II. of France, flew away from Fontainebleau one day and was caught at Malta the next morning. The male bird is smaller and less powerful than the female, as frequently happens with birds of prey; it was called, on that account, a Tiercel,–a third,–and caught partridges and small birds. It was the larger female who pursued the hare, the kite, and crane. These birds will not submit to be enslaved; they never breed in a domestic state, and the stock was replaced by taking new birds captive. Hawking is said to have been derived from Asia,–where it is still pursued in Persia and China.

Other kinds, besides the Peregrine Falcon, were trained for sport; the Gyrfalcon, for instance, an extreme northern bird, taken in Iceland, whence they were sent to the King of Denmark; a thousand pounds were given for a "cast" of these hawks in the reign of James the First. Mr. Nuttall says that occasionally a pair of Gyrfalcons are seen in the Northern States, but they are very rare. The Duck-hawk or Peregrine Falcon, is chiefly found on the coast, where it makes great havoc among the wild ducks, and even attacks the wild geese. The Gyrfalcon is two feet long; the Peregrine Falcon of this country twenty inches, which is rather larger than that of Europe. We have also the Goshawk, another esteemed bird of sport, of the same tribe; it is rare here, and is larger than that of Europe. The Gyrfalcon and the Peregrine Falcon are birds that never touch carrion, feeding only on their own prey; these belonged to Falconry proper, which was considered the nobler branch of the sport. Among the birds used for Hawking, strictly speaking, were the Goshawk, the Sparrow-hawk, the Buzzard, and the Harpy.

Wild Swans are still found in the secluded northern lakes of this State, where they remain the whole year round. Large flocks, however, come from still farther north, and winter in the Chesapeake. They have a whistle, which distinguishes them from the mute species, which is much the most graceful. The Icelanders are very partial to the whistle of the wild Swan, perhaps because they associate it with the spring; and Mr. Nuttall supposes that it was this note of theirs which led to the classic fancy of the song of the dying Swan. These birds are widely spread over Europe and America, though our own variety differs slightly from that of the Old World.

The Eider-Duck is another celebrated fowl with which we have a passing acquaintance in this State. In very severe winters, a few find their way from the northward, as far as the coast of Long Island. They breed from Maine, north. They are handsome birds, with much white in their plumage, and are very gentle and familiar. Dr. De Kay thinks they might easily be domesticated in this part of the country. The female plucks the down from her own breast, for the purpose of making a soft nest for her young; but after she has laid a number of eggs, these and the down are both removed, the eggs being very palatable. The patient creature then re-lines her nest with the last down on her breast and lays a few more eggs; again both down and eggs are taken by greedy man; the poor mother has now no more down to give, so the male bird steps forward, and the nest is lined a third time. Two or three eggs are then laid, and the poor creatures are permitted to raise these–not from any kindly feeling, but to lure them back to the same spot again the following year, for they like to haunt familiar ground. Their nests are made of sea-weed and moss; Mr. Audubon saw many of them in Labrador. When the young are hatched, the mother frequently carries them on her back to the water; and when they are once afloat, none of them return permanently to the land that season. The down is so very elastic, that a ball of it held in the hand will expand and fill a foot-covering for a large bed. It is always taken from the live birds, if possible; that from the dead bird being much less elastic; and for this reason, they are seldom killed.

Wednesday, 6th.–Green and reddish leaves are yet hanging on the scarlet honeysuckles, the Greville and Scotch roses; and a few are also left on the little weeping-willow.

Friday, 8th.–Very mild, and cloudy, but without rain. Indeed, it is almost warm; people are complaining of lassitude, the air quite oppressive, and thermometer at 64. The grass quite green again, in patches; cows feeding in some pastures.

Saturday, 9th.–Still same mild weather with dark skies.

A large flock of tree-sparrows about the house this morning. These birds come from the far north to winter here; they are not so common with us, however, as the snow-bird and the chicadee. The little creatures were looking for seeds and insects among the bushes and on the ground, and they seemed to pick up gleanings here and there. Though constantly fluttering about among the honeysuckles, they passed the berries without tasting them; and often, when birds have been flitting about in autumn when the fruit of the honeysuckle looked bright and tempting, I have observed that it was left untouched. The birds do not like it. The blue berries of the Virginia creeper, on the contrary, are favorite food with many birds, though poisonous to man.

Monday, 11th.–Very mild. A dull day closed with a cheering sunset; the clouds, in waving folds of gray, covered the whole heavens; but as the sun dropped low, he looked in upon us, and immediately the waves of vapor were all tinged with red, dark and rich, beyond the pines of Sunset Hill, and paler, but still flushed, to the farthest point of the horizon.

Another little sparrow flew past us, as we were walking this afternoon.

Tuesday, 12th.–Mild, but cooler; frost last night. Long walk in the woods. Much green fern still in many places, although it is no longer erect. We have had only one fall of snow, and that a light one; but the fern is already lying on the ground, prostrate, as in spring. Adjoining these fresh leaves of the different ferns, there are large tufts of the same kind completely dry and withered, though it is not easy to see why there should be this difference. Can it be the younger fronds which are more tenacious of life? Gathered a fine bunch of the scarlet berries, of the dragon-arum, as bright as in September. The ground-laurel is in flower-bud, and the buds are quite full. Many trees and plants are budding.

Wednesday, 13th.–Lovely day; mild and cloudless. Walked on Mount Vision. The lake very beautiful as we looked down upon it; clear light blue, encircled by the brown hills.

No birds. At this season one may often pass through the woods without seeing a feathered thing; and yet woodpeckers, blue-jays, and crows are there by the score, besides snow-birds, chicadees, sparrows, and winter-wrens, perhaps; but they do not seem to cross one's path. The larger birds are never active at this season, but the snow-bird and chicadee are full of life.

Thursday, 14th.–Mild, pleasant day. Again we hear news of the panther; a very respectable man, Champenois, the farmer at the Cliffs, living a mile or two from the village, on the lake shore, tells my father that he was returning quite late at night from the village, when he was startled by hearing a wild cry in the woods, above the road, sounding as though it came from Prospect Rock; he thought at first it was a woman crying in a wailing kind of way, and was on the point of turning back and following the sound, but the cry was repeated several times, and he thought, after all, it was not a woman's voice. A few days later, as his little boys were crossing a piece of woods on the top of Cliff Hill, they heard a strange cry at no great distance, sounding something like a woman's voice; they answered the voice, when the sound was repeated several times in a strange way, which disturbed the little fellows so effectually, that they turned back and ran nearly a mile, until they reached the farm-house, very much frightened. Both the farmer and the boys, in this case, are a very quiet, steady set, not at all likely to invent a tale of the kind. It really looks as if the creature were in the neighborhood, strange as it may seem. It so happened, that only a day or two before the boys heard the cry in the Cliff woods, we were crossing that very ground with one of them, never dreaming of a panther being near us; if it were really there at the time, one would have liked to have caught a glimpse of it–just near enough to decide the point, and to boast for the rest of one's days of having met a real live panther in our own woods! But as their reputation is, they seldom, I believe, attack human beings unless exasperated; and of course we should have been satisfied with a distant and brief interview; no doubt we should have been very heartily frightened.

Friday, 15th.–It is well known that we have in the southern parts of the country a member of the Parrot tribe, the Carolina Parakeet. It is a handsome bird, and interesting from being the only one of its family met with in a temperate climate of the Northern Hemisphere. They are found in great numbers as far north as Virginia, on the Atlantic coast; beyond the Alleghanies, they spread themselves much farther to the northward, being frequent on the banks of the Ohio, and in the neighborhood of St. Louis. They are even found along the Illinois, nearly as far north as the shores of Lake Michigan. They fly in flocks, noisy and restless, like all their brethren; their coloring is green and orange, with a shade of red about the head. In the Southern States their flesh is eaten. Greatly to the astonishment of the good people of Albany, a large flock of these birds appeared in their neighborhood in the year 1795. It is a well-authenticated fact, that a flock of Parakeets were observed some twenty-five miles to the northward of Albany during that year; so that we have a right to number them among our rare visitors. They have been repeatedly seen in the valley of the Juniata, in Pennsylvania. Birds are frequently carried about against their will by gales of wind; the Stormy Petrels, for instance, thoroughly aquatic as they are, have been found, occasionally, far inland. And in the same way we must account for the visit of the Parakeets to the worthy Knickerbockers about Albany.

But among all the birds which appear from time to time within our borders, there is not one which, in its day, has attracted so much attention and curiosity as the Ibis–the sacred Ibis of Egypt. There were two birds of this family worshipped by the Egyptians–the white, the most sacred, and the black. For a long time, the learned were greatly puzzled to identify these birds; but at length the question was fully settled by MM. Cuvier and Savigny; and we now find that the Ibis of both kinds, instead of being peculiar to Egypt, extends far over the world. There are two old paintings discovered among the ruins of Herculaneum, representing Egyptian sacrifices of importance, and in each several Ibises are introduced close to the altar and the priest. The reverence in which the Ibis was held in Egypt seems, indeed, to have been carried as far as possible: it was declared pre-eminently sacred; its worship, unlike that of other divinities among them, was not local, but extended throughout Egypt; the priests declared that if the Gods were to take a mortal form, it would be under that of the Ibis that they would appear; the water in the temple was only considered fit for religious purposes after an Ibis had drunk of it. These birds were nurtured in the temples, and it was death for a man to kill one. Even their dead bodies, as we all know, were embalmed by the thousand. The motive for this adoration was said to be the great service rendered to Egypt by these birds, who were supposed to devour certain winged serpents, and prevent their devastating the country. M. Charles Buonaparte supposes that this fable arose from the fact that the Ibis appeared with the favorable winds which preceded the rains and inundation of the Nile. So much for the fables which conferred such high honors upon the Ibis.

In reality, these birds, so far from being confined to Egypt, are found in various parts of the world. In the Southern States of the Union, particularly in Florida and Louisiana, they are quite numerous; and they are found occasionally as far north as the shores of Long Island. They are said to fly in large flocks, and feed upon crayfish and small fry. Ornithologists place them between the Curlew and the Stork. It is said that sometimes, during a gale or a thunder-storm, large flocks of them are seen in movement, turning and wheeling in the air, when their brilliant white plumage produces a very fine effect amid the dark clouds. The White Ibis is twenty-three inches in length, and thirty-seven across the wings.

The Black Ibis was considered as confined to particular spots in Egypt. In reality, however, this bird is much the greater wanderer of the two; it is found in Europe, Asia, Africa, Australia, and America. It is said to be more rare on the coast of this State than the White Ibis. Their annual migration over Europe is described by the Prince of Canino as extending usually from the S. W. to the N. E.; they pass from Barbary to Corsica, and through Italy, toward the Caspian Sea, where they breed. In the north and west of Europe they are rare, though for several seasons a flock has bred in the Baltic. In Egypt they remain from October to March, and, no longer sacred, they are sold there in the markets. The Glossy, or Black Ibis, is twenty-three inches in length.

These Ibises are said to be all dull, stupid birds, quite harmless, and not timid. They live in flocks, but pair for life. They have an expert way of tossing up the shell-fish, worms, etc., etc. upon which they feed, and catching the object in their throat as it falls. Their stomachs have greater strength than their bills, for they swallow large shells which they cannot break. The nest is built on high trees; the female alone sits on her two or three eggs, but the male feeds her and the young also, the last requiring care a long time. Their gait is said to be dignified; large parties often moving together in regular order. Their flight is heavy, but they soar high, and remain long on the wing. The first observed on our coast was shot in Great Egg Harbor, in May, 1817; since then others have been killed from time to time, as far north as Boston. So much for this noted bird, worshipped by that "wisdom of the Egyptians" in which Moses was instructed, and which he rejected for that purer faith which each of us should bless God for having preserved among men, in spite of the weak and wavering apostasy to which our fallen race is prone.

It is rather singular that we should have within the limits of this northern province three noted objects of Egyptian adoration, at least in each instance we have a closely-allied species; the Ibis, both white and black, among their sacred birds; the Nelumbo, akin to the Lotus, among their sacred plants; and the humble, ball-rolling beetle, closely allied to their Scarabæus.

Saturday, 16th.–Very mild, but half-cloudy day. We have had rather more dark skies this last week or two than is usual with us. The mornings have often been gray and lowering until eight o'clock, though we have never known candles used here after sunrise, even during the darkest days.

Monday, 18th., 7 o'clock A. M.–Lovely, soft morning. The valley lies cool and brown in the dawning light, a beautiful sky hanging over it, with delicate, rosy, sunrise clouds floating here and there amid the limpid blue. It will be an hour yet before the sun comes over the hill; at this season its rays scarcely touch the village roofs before eight, leaving them in shadow again a little after four.

How beautiful are the larger pines which crown the eastern hill at this moment! These noble trees always look grandly against the morning and evening sky; the hills stand so near us on either side, and the pines are of such a height and size, that we see them very clearly, their limbs and foliage drawn in dark relief against the glowing sky.

Tuesday, 19th.–Most charming day; all but too warm. Thermometer 66. Long walk over the hills. The farmers say winter never comes until the streams are full; they have been very low all through the autumn, but now they are filled to the brim. The river shows more than usual, winding through the leafless valley. This is in truth a protracted Indian summer; mild airs, with soft, hazy sunshine. Dandelions are in full flower by the road-side; cows and sheep are feeding in the pastures. They are ploughing on many farms; the young wheat-fields are beautiful in vivid verdure.

In the woods we found many green things; all the mosses and little evergreen plants are beautifully fresh; many of the feather mosses are in flower. The pipsissiwa and ground-laurel are in bud; the last has its buds full-sized, and the calyx opening to show the tips of the flowers, but these are only faintly touched with pink on the edge; unfolding them, we found the petals still green within. It is very possible that some violets may be in flower here and there, although we did not see any; but the autumn before last violets were gathered here the first days in December, though generally here the first days in December, though generally, this month is wholly flowerless in our neighborhood.

We passed a cart standing in the woods, well loaded with Christmas greens for our parish church. Pine and hemlock are the branches commonly used among us for the purpose; the hemlock, with its flexible twigs, and the grayish reverse of its foliage, produces a very pretty effect. We contributed a basketful of ground-pine, both the erect and running kinds, with some glittering club-moss and glossy pipsissiwa, for our share; it is not every year that we can procure these more delicate plants, as the snow is often too deep to find them. Neither the holly, the cedar, the cypress, or the laurel, grows in our immediate neighborhood, so that we are limited to the pine and hemlock. These two trees, however, when their branches are interwoven are very well adapted for Christmas wreaths.

Wednesday, 20th.–Cooler; the air more chilly. Walked in the afternoon. Gray gnats were still dancing here and there. Found a merry party of chicadees in the oak by the mill bridge; their cheerful note falls pleasantly on the ear at this silent season.

Saturday, 23d.–Winter in its true colors at last; a bright, fine day, with a foot of snow lying on the earth. Last night the thermometer fell to 8' above zero, and this morning a narrow border of ice appeared along the lake shore.

Sleighs are out for the first time this winter; and, as usual, the good people enjoy the first sleighing extremely. Merry bells are jingling through the village streets; cutters and sleighs with gay parties dashing rapidly about.

Saturday, 23d.–Most of the wisest people in the land know little more about Santa Claus than the children. There is a sort of vague, moonlight mystery still surrounding the real identity of the old worthy. Most of us are satisfied with the authority of pure unalloyed tradition going back to the burghers of New Amsterdam, more especially now that we have the portraits by Mr. Weir, and the verses of Professor Moore, as confirmation of nursery lore. It is only here and there that one finds a ray of light falling upon something definite. We are told, for instance, that there was many hundred years ago, in the age of Constantine, a saintly Bishop by the name of Nicholas, as Patara, in Asia Minor, renowned for his piety and charity. In the course of time, some strange legends sprang up concerning him; among other acts of mercy, he was supposed to have restored to life two lads who had been murdered by their treacherous host, and it was probably owing to this tradition that he was considered the especial friend of children. When the Dominican fraternity arose, about 1200, they selected him as their patron saint. He was also–and is, indeed, to this day–held in great honor by the Greek Church in Russia. He was considered as the especial patron of scholars, virgins, and seamen. Possibly, it was through some connection with this last class that he acquired such influence in the nurseries of Holland. Among that nautical race, the patron saint of sea-faring men must have been often invoked before the Reformation, by the wives and children of those who were far away on the stormy seas of Africa and the Indies. The festival of St. Nicholas fell on the 6th of December, but a short time before Christmas. It seems that the Dutch Reformed Church engaged in a revision of the Calendar, at the time of the Reformation, by a regular court, examining the case of each individual canonized by the Church of Rome, something in the way of the usual proceedings at a canonization by that Church. The claims of the individual to the honors of a saint were advanced on one hand, and opposed on the other. It is said that wherever they have given a decision, it has always been against the claimant. But in a number of instances they have left the case still open to investigation to the present hour, and among other cases of this kind stands that of Sanctus Klaas, or St. Nicholas. In the mean time, until the question should be fully settled, his anniversary was to be kept in Holland, and the children, in the little hymn they used to sing in his honor, were permitted to address him as "goedt heyligh man "–good holy man. It appears that it was not so much at Christmas as on the eve of his own festival that he was supposed to drive his wagon over the roofs and down the chimneys to fill little people's stockings. For these facts, our authority is the "Benson Memoir." A number of years since, Judge Benson, so well known to the old New Yorkers as the highest authority upon all Dutch chapters, had a quantity of regular "cookies" made and the little hymn said by the children in honor of St. Nicholas printed in Dutch, and sent a supply of each as a Christmas present to the children of his particular friends. But though we have heard of this hymn, we have never yet been able to meet with it. Probably it is still in existence, among old papers in some garret or store-room.

Strange indeed has been the two-fold metamorphosis undergone by the pious, ancient Bishop of Patara. We have every reason to believe that there once lived a saintly man of that name and charitable character, but, as in many other cases, the wonders told of him by the monkish legends are too incredible to be received upon the evidence which accompanies them. Then later, in a day of revolutions, we find every claim disputed, and the pious, Asiatic bishop appears before us no longer a bishop, no longer an Asiatic, no longer connected with the ancient world, but a sturdy, kindly, jolly old burgher of Amsterdam, half Dutchman, half "spook." The legend-makers of the cloister on one hand, the nurses and gossips of Dutch nurseries, black and white, on the other, have made strange work of it. It would be difficult to persuade the little people now that "Santa Claus" ever had a real existence; and yet, perhaps, we ought to tell them that there was once a saintly man of that name, who did many such good deeds as all Christians are commanded to do, works of love and mercy. At present they can only fancy Santa Claus as Mr. Moore has seen him, in those pleasant, funny verses, which are so highly relished in our nurseries:

"His eyes, how they twinkled! His dimples, how merry!
His cheeks were like roses–his nose like a cherry;
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow.
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face, and a little, round belly,
That shook, when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly;
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf;
And I laughed, when I saw him, in spite of myself."

Monday, 25th, Christmas Day.–There is a saying in the village that it always rains here on Christmas; and, as if to prove it true, there is a heavy mist hanging upon the hills this morning, with rain falling at intervals in the valley. But even under a cloudy sky, Christmas must always be a happy, cheerful day; the bright fires, the fresh and fragrant greens, the friendly gifts, and words of good-will, the "Merry Christmas" smiles on most faces one meets, give a warm glow to the day, in spite of a dull sky, and make up an humble accompaniment for the exalted associations of the festival as it is celebrated in solemn, public worship and kept by the hearts of believing Christians.

The festival is very generally remembered now in this country, though more as a social than a religious holiday, by all those who are opposed to such observances on principle. In large towns it is almost universally kept. In the villages, however, but few shops are closed, and only one or two of the half-dozen places of worship are opened for service. Still, everybody recollects that it is Christmas; presents are made in all families; the children go from house to house wishing "Merry Christmas;" and probably few who call themselves Christians allow the day to pass without giving a thought to the sacred event it commemorates as they wish their friends a "Merry Christmas."

Merry Christmas! Throughout Christendom, wherever the festival is observed–and there are now few communities where it is entirely forgotten–alms and deeds of charity to the poor and afflicted make a regular part of its services, proclaiming "good-will to man." The poor must ever, on this day, put in a silent but eloquent appeal for succor, in their Master's name; and those who have the means of giving open more freely a helpful hand to their afflicted brethren. The hungry are fed, the naked are clothed, the cold are cheered and warmed with fuel, the desolate and houseless are provided for, the needy debtor is forgiven, an hour of ease and relief is managed for the weary and careworn, innocent gratifications are contrived by the liberal for those whose pleasures are few and rare. Were the whole amount of the charities of this festival told and numbered, it would assuredly prove larger than that of any other day of the year; and the heart rejoices that it is so; we love to remember how many sad spirits have been cheered, how many cares lightened, how many fears allayed by the blessed hand of Christian Charity moving in the name of her Lord.

Merry Christmas! What a throng of happy children there are in the world to-day! It is delightful to recollect how many little hearts are beating with pleasure, how many childish lips are prattling cheerfully, lisping their Christmas hymns in many a different dialect, according to the speech the little creatures have inherited. These ten thousand childish groups scattered over Christendom are in themselves a right pleasant vision, and enough to make one merry in remembering them. Many are gathered in the crowded dwellings of towns, others under the rustic roof of the peasant; some in the cabins of the poor, others within royal walls; these are sitting about the hearth-stone on the shores of the arctic Iceland, others are singing in the shady verandas of Hindostan; some, within the bounds of our own broad land, are playing with ever blooming flowers of a tropical climate, and others, like the little flocks of this highland neighborhood, are looking abroad over the pure white snows. Scarce a child of them all, in every land where Christmas hymns are sung, whose heart is not merrier than upon most days of the year. It is indeed a very beautiful part of Christmas customs that children come in for a share of our joys to-day; the blessing and approbation of our gracious Lord were so very remarkably bestowed on them, that we do well especially to remember their claims in celebrating the Nativity; at other festivals they are forgotten, but their unfeigned, unalloyed gayety help, indeed, to make Christmas merry; and their simple, true-hearted devotions, their guileless hosannas, must assuredly form an acceptable offering to Him who Himself condescended to become a little child, and who has said, "Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven." Other religions have scarcely heeded children; Christianity bestows on them an especial blessing; it is well, indeed, that they rejoice with us to-day.

Merry Christmas! The words fall idly, perhaps, from too many careless lips; they are uttered by those who give them no deeper meaning than a passing friendly salutation of the moment; and yet every tongue that repeats the phrase bears unconscious witness to the power of the Gospel–those good-tidings of great joy to all mankind. From the lips of the most indifferent, these words seem to carry at least some acknowledgment of the many temporal benefits which Christianity has shed over the earth, those cheaper gifts of hers which are yet incalculable in their value. They tell of aid to the needy, of comfort to the prisoner, of shelter to the houseless, of care for the sick and helpless; they tell of protection to the feeble, to women, to children; they tell of kinder parents, of children more dutiful, of husbands more generous and constant, of wives more faithful and true, of the high bond of brotherhood more closely knit; they tell of milder governments, of laws more just, of moral education; they tell of a worship holy and pure. "The fear of the Lord maketh a merry heart," says the wise son of Sirach.

Tuesday, 26th.–Cold; but the lake is still open. It has often beautiful moments at this season, and we watch it with increasing interest as we count the days ere its icy mask will creep over it.

Wednesday, 27th.–This evening's papers tell us of a panther actually killed on the Mohawk, immediately to the northward of our own position, within the last week! The animal was shot near the river by the captain of a Syracuse canal-boat, and there seems very good reason to believe that it is the same creature who passed some weeks among our own hills. According to the reports brought into the village, the panther, when in our neighborhood, was taking a northerly course; during the last fortnight or three weeks nothing has been heard of him; and now we hear of an animal of the same kind recently killed about twenty miles to the northward of us, upon ground where it excited as much wonder as in our own valley.

It is rather mortifying that he should not have been killed in this county, where he chose to show himself repeatedly; but, in fact, our sportsmen were too much afraid of being hoaxed to go out after him; they only began to believe the truth of the story when too late.

Thursday, 28th.–Snow again. Reports from Albany say the Hudson is probably closed, and navigation broken up for the winter. The river usually freezes some time before our lake.

Friday, 29th.–Snow. A darker sky than usual.

Saturday, 30th.–Still, half-cloudy day. Snow eighteen inches deep; a fall of several inches during the night. The air is always delightfully pure after a fresh fall of snow, and to-day this sort of wintry perfume is very marked. Long drive, which we enjoyed extremely. We have put on our winter livery in earnest, and shall probably keep it, with a break here and there, perhaps, until the spring equinox. It is, indeed, a vast change from grass to snow; things wear a widely different aspect from what they do in summer. All color seems bleached out of the earth, and what was a few weeks since a glowing landscape has now become a still bas-relief. The hills stand unveiled; the beautiful leaves are gone, and the eye seeks in vain for a trace of the brilliant drapery of autumn–even its discolored shreds lie buried beneath the snow. The fields are all alike; meadow, and corn-field, and hop-ground, lie shrouded and deserted; neither laborers nor cattle are seen a-field during three months of our year. Gray lines of wooden fences, old stumps, and scattered leafless trees are all that break the broad, white waste, which a while since bore the harvests of summer.

There is, however, something very fine and imposing in a broad expanse of snow; hill and dale, farm and forest, trees and dwellings, the neglected waste, and the crowded streets of the town, are all alike under its influence; over all it throws its beautiful vesture of purer white than man can bleach; for thousands and thousands of miles, wherever the summer sunshine has fallen, there lies the snow.

The evergreens on the hills show more white than verdure to-day, their limbs are heavily laden with snow, especially those near the summits of the hills. Saw a couple of crows in a leafless elm; they looked blacker than ever.

The lake is fine this afternoon, entirely free from ice. When we first went out it was a deep, mottled, lead-color; but the sky cleared, and toward sunset the waters became burnished over, changing to a warm golden gray, and looking beautiful in their setting of snow and evergreens.