The usual visiting going on in the village; all gallant spirits are in motion, from very young gentlemen of five or six, to their grandpapas, wishing "Happy New Year" to the ladies.

In this part of the world we have a double share of holiday presents, generous people giving at New Year's, as well as Christmas. The village children run from house to house wishing "Happy New Year," and expecting a cookie, or a copper, for the compliment. This afternoon we saw them running in and out of the shops also; among them were a few grown women on the same errand. These holiday applicants at the shops often receive some trifle, a handful of raisins, or nuts; a ribbon, or a remnant of cheap calico, for a sun-bonnet. Some of them are in the habit of giving a delicate hint as to the object they wish for, especially the older girls and women: "Happy New Year–and we'll take it out in tea"–"or sugar"–"or ribbon," as the case may be.

Tuesday, 2d.–Windy, bright and cold. Thermometer fallen to 2 above zero. The blue waters of the lake are smoking, a low mist constantly rising two or three feet above them, and then disappearing in the clear atmosphere–a sign of ice.

Wednesday, 3d.–Excellent sleighing, but too cold to enjoy it. The driver of the stage-coach became so chilled last night, that, in attempting to wrap a blanket about his body, the reins dropped from his stiffened hands, the horses ran, he was thrown from his seat, and the sleigh upset; happily no one was seriously injured, though some persons were bruised.

The mails are very irregular now; the deep snow on the railroads retards them very much. This is winter in earnest.

Friday, 5th.–A very stormy day; cold, high wind; snow drifting in thick clouds. Yet strange to say, though so frosty and piercing, the wind blew from the southward. Our high winds come very generally from that quarter; often they are sirocco-like, even in winter, but at times they are chilly.

All the usual signs of severe cold show themselves: the smoke rises in dense, white, broken puffs from the chimneys; the windows are glazed with frost-work, and the snow creaks as we move over it.

Saturday, 6th.–Milder and quieter. Roads much choked with snow-drifts; the mails irregular; travelling very difficult. Lake still lying open, dark, and gray, with ice in the bays. There was a pretty, fresh ripple passing over it this morning.

It is Twelfth-Night, an old holiday, much less observed with us than in Europe; it is a great day with young people and children in France and England, the closing of the holidays. It is kept here now and then in some families. But what is better, our churches are now open for the services of the Epiphany, so peculiarly appropriated to this New World, where, Gentiles ourselves, we are bearing the light of the Gospel onward to other Gentile races still in darkness.

Monday, 8th.–Cold night. The lake is frozen. We have seen the last of its beautiful waters for three months, or more. One always marks the ice gathering about them with regret. No change of wind or weather short of this can destroy their beauty. Even in December, when the woods are bare and dreary, when the snow lies upon the earth, the lake will often look lovely as in summer–now clear, gay blue; now still, deep gray; then again varied with delicate tints of rose and purple, and green which we had believed all fled to the skies.

Thursday, 11th.–Clear, and severely cold. Thermometer 16 below zero at daylight this morning. Too cold for sleighing; but we walked as usual. So cold that the children have given up sliding down hill–the winter pastime in which they most delight. The lake is a brilliant field of unsullied white; for a light fall of snow covered it as it froze, greatly to the disappointment of the skaters. The fishermen have already taken possession of the ice, with their hooks baited for pickerel and salmon-trout.

Men are driving about in fur over-coats, looking like very good representations of the four-legged furred creatures that formerly prowled about here. Over-coats of buffalo robes are the most common; those of fox and gray rabbit, or wolf, are also frequently seen.

Friday, 12th.–Such severe weather as this the turkeys can hardly be coaxed down from their roost, even to feed; they sometimes sit thirty-six hours perched in a tree, or in the fowl-house, without touching the ground. They are silly birds, for food would warm them.

Saturday, 13th.–Quite mild; bright sky; soft air from the southwest. Pleasant walk on the lake; just enough snow on the ice first formed, for a mile or so, to make the footing sure. Beyond this the ice is clear, but unusually rough, from having frozen of a windy night when the water was disturbed.

The clear, icy field, seen in the distance, might almost cheat one into believing the lake open; it is quite blue this afternoon with reflections of the sky. But we miss the charming play of the water.

Monday, 15th.–Yesterday was a delightful day; soft and clear. To-day it rains. We always have a decided thaw this month; "the January thaw," which is quite a matter of course. The lake is watery from the rain of Saturday night, which has collected on the ice, lake above lake, as it were. The hills and sky are clearly reflected on this watery surface, but we feel rather than see that the picture is shallow, having no depth.

Wednesday, 17th.–Pleasant weather. Good sleighing yet. Troops of boys skating on the lake. The ice is a fine light blue to-day; toward sunset it was colored with green and yellow; those not familiar with it might have fancied it open; but there is a fixed, glassy look about the ice, which betrays the deception, and reminds one what a poor simile is that of a mirror for the mobile, graceful play of countenance of the living waters in their natural state.

The fresh, clear ice early in the season is often tinged with bright reflections of the sky.

Thursday, 18th.–It is snowing a little. The children are enjoying their favorite amusement of sliding to their heart's content; boys and girls, mounted on their little sleds, fly swiftly past you at every turn. Wherever there is a slight descent, there you are sure to find the children with their sleds; many of these are very neatly made and painted; some are named also,–the "Gazelle," the "Pathfinder," etc., etc. Grown people once in a while take a frolic in this way; and of a bright moonlight night, the young men sometimes drag a large wood-shed to the top of Mount Vision, or rather to the highest point which the road crosses, when they come gliding swiftly down the hill to the village bridge, a distance of just one mile–a pretty slide that–a very respectable montagne russe.

Saturday, 20th.–A crust has formed on the snow of the late thaw, so that we are enabled to leave the track this afternoon. It is very seldom that one can do this; there is rarely any crust here strong enough to bear a grown person. We are wholly confined to the highways and village streets for winter walks. One may look up never so longingly to the hills and woods, they are tabooed ground, like those inaccessible mountains of fairy-land guarded by genii. Even the gardens and lawns are trackless wastes at such times, crossed only by the path that leads to the doorway.

Occasionally, however, a prolonged thaw carries off the snow, even from the hills, and then one enjoys a long walk with redoubled zest. Within the last few years we have been on Mount Vision every month in the winter; one season in December, another in January, and a third in February. But such walks are quite out of the common order of things from the first of December to the fifteenth of March. During all that time, we usually plod humbly along the highways.

Monday, 22d.–The Albany papers give an extract from a paper of St. Lawrence county, which mentions that an animal, becoming rare in this State, has recently been killed in that part of the country. A moose of the largest size was shot in the town of Russell, near the Grass River. It is described as "standing considerably more than six feet in height, with monstrous horns to match." It was frozen in a standing position, and exhibited as a curiosity in the same part of the country where it had been shot; many people went to look at him, never having seen one before.

These large quadrupeds are still rather numerous in the northern forest counties of New York; their tracks are frequently seen by the hunters, but they are so wary, and their senses are so acute, that it requires great art to approach them. It is chiefly in the winter, when they herd together, that they are shot.

They are ungainly creatures, with long legs, and an ill-shaped head, heavy horns, and a huge nose. The other animals of their tribe are all well formed, and graceful in their movements; but the moose is awkward, also, in his gait. His long legs enable him to feed on the branches of trees, whence his name of moose, from the Indian musee or musu, wood-eater. It is well known that our striped maple is a great favorite with him. He is partial, also, to aquatic plants, the pond-lily in particular. It will also eat bark, which it peels off from old trees. In winter, these animals herd together in the hilly woods, and they are said to show great sagacity in treading down the snow to form their moose-yards. In summer, they visit the lakes and rivers. At this season they are light brown; in winter they become so much darker that they have been called the Black Elk. As they grow old they generally become, indeed, almost black.

Dr. De Kay believes our moose to be identical with the elk of Northern Europe. It is from six to seven feet in length and has a mane. Their horns are flat, broad, and in some instances four feet from tip to tip. They have occasionally been domesticated in this State, for they are easily tamed.

We have in the United States six varieties of the Deer family; of these, three are found in New York: the Moose, the American Deer, and the American Stag.

The Deer is the smallest and the most common of the three. On Long Island, thanks to the game laws, they are thought to be increasing, and in other southern counties they are still numerous, particularly about the Catskills and the Highlands. They are about five or six feet in length; of a bluish gray in autumn and winter, and reddish in the spring. They belong rather to a warm or temperate climate, extending from the Gulf of Mexico to Canada.

The Stag is larger than the Deer–nearly seven feet in length, and about four feet eight inches in height to the fore-shoulders. Its color is reddish in spring, then yellowish brown, and in winter gray. The Stag is now very rare in this State, though still found in the northern and southwestern counties. It is frequently called the Red Deer, and the Round-horned Elk; in fact, it would seem often to have been called more particularly the Elk, under which name it was described by Jefferson. There is a little stream in this county called the Elk Creek, and it was probably named from this animal. It differs from the Stag of Europe. Its horns are round, never palmated.

Besides these three varieties, Dr. De Kay is inclined to believe that the Reindeer was once found in this State, and that it may even possibly still exist in very small numbers in the recesses of our northern forests. It is said to have been known in Maine and at Quebec; and later still, in Vermont and New Hampshire. It is about the size of the common deer, the color varying from deep brown to light gray. Both sexes have horns, which is not the case with other species.

Tuesday, 23d.–Pleasant, mild day. Just on the verge of a thaw, which is always the pleasantest of winter weather. Walk on the lake. Quite slippery, as the ice is only dappled with patches of snow here and there; between these patches it is bare and unusually clear and transparent. Indeed, it is just now dark almost to blackness, so free from any foreign substance–no snow being mixed with it. We never saw it more dark and pure; of course, it is the deep waters beneath, shut out from the light as they are, which give this grave color to the ice as you look down upon it.

Troops of boys skating. There were no very scientific performers among them; nevertheless we followed them with interest, their movement was so easy and rapid. Most of them appeared to greater advantage on skates than when moving in their shoes. Some of the little rogues, with the laudable desire of showing off, whirled to and fro about us, rather nearer than was agreeable. "Where's your manners, I'd like to know!" exclaimed an older lad, in an indignant tone, for which appeal in our behalf we were much obliged to him.

Ladies and little girls were walking about, some sliding also, their sleds drawn by gallant skaters. Altogether, it was a gay, cheerful scene.

The view of the village was very pleasing, the buildings showing against a bright sunset sky. They are cutting, or rather sawing ice, to supply the village next summer; the blocks are about ten inches thick. It is said that from eighteen to twenty inches is the greatest thickness of the ice observed here.

Wednesday, 24th.–Very mild–thawing–the snow going rapidly. The hills are getting brown and bare again, and the coarse stubble of the maize-fields shows plainly through the snow.

Met a number of teams drawing pine-logs to the sawmill. The river runs dark and gray; it rarely freezes near the village; the current, though not very swift, seems sufficient to prevent the ice from covering the stream. Very pleasant it is, in the midst of a scene so still and wintry, to watch the running, living waters gliding along with a murmur as low and gentle as in June.

Thursday, 25th.–Rainy day. High south wind. They are cutting ice; the sleds and men moving about in the water which lies above the ice look oddly enough; and, like the swan of St. Mary's, they move double also–sleds, men, and oxen reflected as clear as life.

Friday, 26th.–Beautiful morning; charming sunrise, warm clouds in a soft sky. The lake rosy with reflections.

We owe the Mice and Rats which infest our dwellings entirely to the Old World. The common brown rat, already so numerous here, is said to have come from Asia, and only appeared in Europe about the beginning of the seventeenth century, or some two hundred and fifty years since. The English say it came over with the Hanoverian kings. The German mercenaries, the "Hessians," of popular speech, are supposed to have brought it to this country. The Black Rat, smaller, and now very rare, is said to have also come from Europe. We have, however, one native rat in this part of the world,–the American Black Rat,–differing from the other species, and very rare indeed.

The common mouse, also, is an emigrant from Europe.

We have very many field-mice, however, belonging to the soil. Among these is the Jumping-Mouse, which builds its nest in trees, and is common through the country. The tiny tracks of the Field-Mice are occasionally seen on the snow in winter.

There is another pretty little animal, called the Deer-Mouse, which, strictly speaking, is not considered a mouse. Its body is only three inches long, while its tail is eight inches. It takes leaps of ten or twelve feet. It is a northern animal, nocturnal, and rarely seen, but not uncommon; they are frequently found in ploughed grasslands. They feed chiefly on grass and seeds.

Saturday, 27th.–Very fine day; quite a full market-day in the village; many people coming in from the country.

Nowadays there are always more than one store in every village. Indeed, you never find one of a trade standing long alone anywhere on Yankee ground. There is no such man in the country as the village doctor, the baker, the lawyer, the tailor; they must all be marshalled in the plural number. We can understand that one doctor should need another to consult and disagree with; and that one lawyer requires another with whom he may join issue in the case of Richard Roe vs. John Doe, but why there should always be two barbers in an American village, does not seem so clear, since the cut of the whiskers is an arbitrary matter in our day, whatever may be the uncertainties of science and law. Many trades, however, are carried on by threes and fours; it strikes one as odd that in a little town of some 1400 souls there should be three jewellers and watchmakers. There are also some score of tailoresses –and both trade and word, in their feminine application, are said to be thoroughly American. Then, again, there are seven taverns in our village, four of them on quite a large scale. As for the eating-houses–independently of the taverns–their number is quite humiliating; it looks as though we must needs be a very gormandizing people: there are some dozen of them–Lunches, Recesses, Restaurants, or whatever else they may be called; and yet this little place is quite out of the world, off the great routes. It is, however, the county town, and the courts bring people here every few weeks.

There are half a dozen "stores" on quite a large scale. It is amusing to note the variety within their walls. Barrels, ploughs, stoves, brooms, rakes, and pitchforks; muslins, flannels, laces, and shawls; sometimes in winter, a dead porker is hung up by the heels at the door; frequently frozen fowls, turkeys, and geese garnish the entrance. The shelves are filled with a thousand things required by civilized man in the long list of his wants. Here you see a display of glass and crockery, imported, perhaps, directly by this inland firm, from the European manufacturer; there you observe a pile of silks and satins; this is a roll of carpeting, that a box of artificial flowers. At the same counter you may buy kid gloves and a spade; a lace veil and a jug of molasses; a satin dress and a broom; looking-glasses, grass-seed, fire-irons, Valenciennes lace, butter and eggs, embroidery, blankets, candles, cheese, and a fancy fan.

And yet, in addition to this medley, there are regular milliners' shops and groceries in the place, and of a superior class, too. But so long as a village retains its rural character, so long will the country "store" be found there; it is only when it has become a young city that the shop and warehouse take the place of the convenient store, where so many wants are supplied on the same spot.

It is amusing once in a while to look on as the different customers come and go. The country people come into the village not to shop, but to trade; their purchases are all a matter of positive importance to them, they are all made with due forethought and deliberation. Most Saturdays of the year one meets farm-wagons, or lumber-sleighs, according to the season, coming into the village, filled with family parties–and it may be a friend or two besides–two and three seats crowded with grown people, and often several merry-faced little ones sitting in the straw. They generally make a day of it, the men having, perhaps, some business to look after, the women some friends to hunt up, besides purchases to be made and their own produce to be disposed of, for they commonly bring with them something of this kind; eggs or butter, maple-sugar or molasses, feathers, yarn, or homespun clothes and flannels. At an early hour on pleasant Saturdays, summer or winter, the principal street shows many such customers, being lined with their wagons or sleighs; in fact, it is a sort of market-day. It is pleasing to see these family parties making their purchases. Sometimes it is a mother exchanging the fruits of her own labors for a gay print to make frocks for the eager, earnest-looking little girls by her side; often the husband stands by holding a baby–one always likes to see a man carrying the baby–it is a kind act–while the wife makes her choice of teacups or brooms; now we have two female friends, country neighbors, putting their heads together in deep consultation over a new shawl. Occasionally a young couple appear, whom one shrewdly guesses to be betrothed lovers, from a peculiar expression of felicity, which in the countenance of the youth is dashed, perhaps, with rustic roguery, and in that of his sweetheart with a mixture of coquetry and timidity; in general, such couples are a long while making their choice, exchanging very expressive looks and whispers while the bargain is going on. It sometimes happens that a husband or father has been either charged with the purchase of a gown, or a shawl, for some of his womankind, or else, having made a particularly good sale himself, he determines to carry a present home with him; and it is really amusing to look on while he makes his selection–such close examination as he bestows on a shilling print is seldom given to a velvet or a satin; he rubs it together, he passes his hand over it with profound deliberation; he holds it off at a distance to take a view of the effect; he lays it down on the counter; he squints through it at the light; he asks if it will wash–if it will wear well–if it's the fashion. One trembles lest, requiring so much perfection, the present may after all not be made, and frequently one is obliged to leave the shop in a state of painful uncertainty as to the result, always hoping, however, that the wife or daughter at home may not be disappointed. But male and female, young and old, they are generally a long time making up their minds. A while since we found a farmer's wife, a stranger to us, looking at a piece of pink ribbon; we had several errands to attend to, left the shop, and returned there again nearly half an hour later, and still found our friend in a state of hesitation; a stream of persuasive words from the clerk showing the ribbon seemed to have been quite thrown away. But at length, just as we were leaving the shop for the second time, we saw the ribbon cut, and heard the clerk observe–"Six months hence, ma'am, you'll come into town expressly to thank me for having sold you three yards of that ribbon."

Monday, 29th.–Mild, with light rain. Sleighing gone; wheel-carriages out to-day.

The Crows are airing themselves this mild day; they are out in large flocks sailing slowly over the valley, and just rising above the crest of the hills as they come and go; they never seem to soar far above the woods. This afternoon a large flock alighted on the naked trees of a meadow south of the village; there were probably a hundred or two of them, for three large trees were quite black with them. The country people say it is a sign of pestilence, when the crows show themselves in large flocks in winter; but if this were so, we should have but an unhealthy climate, for they are often seen here during the winter. This year, however, they appear more numerous than common. The voice of our crow is so different from that of the European bird, that M. Charles Buonaparte was led to believe they must be another variety; upon examination, however, he decided they were the same. The habits of our crow, their collecting in large flocks, their being smaller, and living so much on grain, are said rather to resemble those of the European Rook:–

"The shortening winter's day is near a close,
  The miry beasts returning frae the plough,
The blackening trains o' Craws, to their repose,
The toil-worn Cotter frae his labor goes,"–

The Raven is rare in this State; it is found, however, in the northern counties, but is quite unknown on the coast. About Niagara they are said to be common. They do not agree with the common crow, or rather where they abound the crow seldom shows itself; at least such is observed to be the case in this country. In Sweden, also, where the raven is common, the crow is rare. The raven is much the largest bird, nearly eight inches longer, measuring twenty-six inches in length and four feet in breadth; the crow measures eighteen and a half inches in length and three feet two inches in breadth. Both the crow and the raven mate for life, and attain to a great age. They both have a habit of carrying up nuts and shell-fish into the air, when they drop them on rocks, for the purpose of breaking them open.

It is said that the Southern Indians invoke the Raven in behalf of their sick. And the tribes on the Missouri are very partial to Ravens' plumes when putting on their war-dress.

Tuesday, 30th.–Cooler. Wood-piles are stretching before the village doors; the fuel for one winter being drawn, sawed, and piled away the year before it is wanted. They are very busy with this task now; these piles will soon be neatly stowed away under sheds, and in wood-houses, for they are all obliged to be removed from the streets, early in the spring, by one of the village laws.

Wood is the chief fuel used in this county. In such a cold climate we need a large supply of it. Some years since it sold here for seventy-five cents a half cord; it now costs a dollar the half cord. A fine, open, wood fire is undeniably the pleasantest mode of heating a room; far more desirable than the coal of England, the peat of Ireland, the delicate laurel charcoal and bronze brazier of Italy, or the unseen furnace of Russia. The very sight of a bright hickory or maple fire is almost enough to warm one; and what so cheerful as the glowing coals, the brilliant flame, and the star-like sparks which enliven the household hearth of a bracing winter's evening as twilight draws on! Such a fire helps to light as well as heat a room; the warm glow it throws upon the walls, the flickering lights and shadows which play there as the dancing flames rise and fall, express the very spirit of cheerful comfort. The crackling, and rattling, and singing, as the flame does its cheerful work, are pleasant household sounds. Alas, that our living forest wood must ere long give way to the black, dull coal; the generous, open chimney to the close and stupid stove!