Friday, 3d.–Very pleasant morning; the sun shining with a mild glow, and a warm air from the south playing over the fading valley. Long walk to a neighboring hamlet.

The farmers are busy with their later autumn tasks, closing the work of the present year; while, at the same time, they are already looking forward to another summer. There is something pleasing in these mingled labors beneath the waning sun of November. It is autumn grown old, and lingering in the field with a kindly smile, while they are making ready for the young spring to come. Here a farmer was patching up barns and sheds to shield his flocks and stores against the winter storms. There ploughmen were guiding their teams over a broad field, turning up the sod for fresh seed, while other laborers were putting up new fences about a meadow which must lie for months beneath the snow, ere the young grass will need to be protected in its growth. Several wagons passed us loaded with pumpkins, and apples, and potatoes, the last crops of the farm on the way from one granary to another. Thus the good man, in the late autumn of life, gathers cheerfully the gifts which Providence bestows for that day, despising no fruit of the season; however simple or homely, he receives each with thankfulness, while, looking forward beyond the coming snows, he sees another spring, and prepares with trustful hope for that brighter season.

Half an hour's walk upon a familiar track brought us to a gate opening into an old by-road which leads over the hills to the little village where we were bound; it was formerly the highway, but a more level track has been opened, and this is now abandoned, or only used as a foot-path. These lanes are charming places for a walk; there are cross-roads enough about the country in every direction, but they are all pretty well travelled, and it is a pleasant variety, once in a while, to follow a silent by-way like this, which is never dusty, and always quiet. It carried us first over a rough, open hillside, used as a sheep-pasture; a large flock were nibbling upon the scraps of the summer's grass among the withered mulleins; we went quietly on our way, but as usual, our approach threw the simple creatures into a panic, disturbing their noonday meal.

Having reached the brow of a hill, we turned to enjoy the view; the gray meadows of the valley lay at our feet, and cattle were feeding in many of them. At this season the flocks and herds became a more distinct feature of the landscape than during the leafy luxuriance of summer; the thickets and groves no longer conceal them, and they turn from the sheltered spots to seek the sunshine of the open fields, where their forms rise in full and warm relief upon the fading herbage. The trees have nearly lost their leaves, now scattered in russet showers, about their roots, while the branches are drawn in shadowy lines by the autumn sun upon the bleached grass and withering foliage with which it is strewn. The woods are not absolutely bare, however; there are yet patches in the forest where the warm coloring of October has darkened into a reddish brown; and here and there a tree still throws a fuller shadow than belongs to winter. The waters of the river were gleaming through the bare thickets on its banks, and the pretty pool, on the next farm, looked like a clear, dark agate, dropped amid the gray fields. A column of smoke, rising slowly from the opposite hill, told of a wood which had fallen, of trees which had seen their last summer. The dun stubble of the old grain-fields, and the darker soil of the newly-ploughed lands, varied the grave November tints, while here and there in their midst lay a lawn of young wheat, sending up its green blades, soft and fresh as though there were no winter in the year, growing more clear and life-like as all else becomes more dreary–a ray of hope on the pale brow of resignation.

So calm and full of repose was the scene, that we turned from it unwillingly, and with as much regret as though it were still gay with the beauty of summer.

Just beyond the brow of the hill the road enters a wood; here the path was thickly strewn with fallen leaves, still crisp and fresh, rustling at every step as we moved among them, while on either side the trees threw out their branches in bare lines of gray. Old chestnuts, with blunt and rough notches; elms, with graceful waving spray; vigorous maples, with the healthful, upright growth of their tribe; the glossy beech, with friendly arms stretched out, as if to greet its neighbors, and among them all, conspicuous as ever, stood the delicate birch, with its alabaster-like bark, and branches of a porphyry color, so strangely different from the parent stem. Every year, as the foliage falls, and the trees reappear in their wintry form, the eye wonders a while at the change, just as we look twice ere we make sure of our acquaintance in the streets, when they vary their wardrobe with the season.

The very last flowers are withering. The beautiful fern of the summer lies in rusty patches on the open hillside, though within the woods it is still fresh and green. We found only here and there a solitary aster, its head drooping, and discolored, showing but little of the grace of a flower. Even the hardy little balls of the everlasting, or moonshine, as the country people call it, are getting blighted and shapeless, while the haws on the thorn-bushes, the hips of the wild rose and sweet-briar, are already shrunken and faded. It is singular, but the native flowers seem to wither earlier than those of the garden, many of which belong to warmer climates. It is not uncommon to find German asters, flos adonis, heart's-ease, and a few sprigs of the monthly honeysuckle, here and there, in the garden even later than this; some seasons we have gathered quite a pretty bunch of these flowers in the first week of December. At that time nothing like a blossom is to be found in the forest.

There once stood a singular tree in the wood through which we were passing. Wonders are told of its growth, for it is now some years since it disappeared, and its existence is becoming a tradition of the valley. Some lovers of the marvellous have declared that upon the trunk of a hemlock rose the head of a pine; while others assert that it was two trees, whose trunks were so closely joined from the roots that there appeared but one stem, although the two different tops were distinctly divided; others, again, living near, tell us that it was only a whimsical hemlock. In short, there are already as many different variations in the story as are needed to make up a marvellous tale, while all agree at least that a remarkable tree stood for years after the settlement of the country on this hill, so tall and so conspicuous in its position as to be seen at some distance, and well known to all who passed along the road. Its fate deserves to be remembered more than its peculiarity. On inquiring what had become of it, we learned the history of its fall. It was not blasted by lightning–it was not laid low by the storm–it was not felled by the axe. One pleasant summer's night, a party of men from another valley came with pick and spade and laid bare its roots, digging for buried treasure. They threw out so much earth, that the next winter the tree died, and soon after fell to the ground. Who would have thought that this old crazy fancy of digging about remarkable trees for hidden treasure should still exist in this school-going, lecture-hearing, newspaper-reading, speech-making community?

"But it was probably some ignorant negro," was observed on hearing the story.

"No at all. They were white men."

"Poor stupid boors from Europe, perhaps"–

"Americans, born and bred. Thorough Yankees moreover, originally from Massachusetts."

"But by whom did they suppose the money to have been buried? They must have known that this part of the country was not peopled until after the Revolution and consequently no fear of Cow-Boys or Skinners could penetrated into this wilderness. Did they suppose the Indians had gold and silver coin to conceal?"

"No. They were digging for Captain Kidd's money."

"Captain Kidd! In these forests, hundreds of miles from the coast!"

Incredible as the folly may seem, such, it appears, was the notion of these men. According to the computation of the money diggers, Captain Kidd must have been the most successful pirate that ever turned thief on the high seas, and have buried as many treasures as Croesus displayed. It has been quite common for people to dig for the pirate's treasure along the shores of Long Island, and upon the coast to the northward and southward; but one would never have expected the trees of these inland woods to be uprooted for the same purpose. But men will seek for gold anywhere, and in any way.

Tuesday, 7th.–Election day. The flags are flying in the snow, which still falls in showers, with intervals of sunshine. The election goes on very quietly in the village; four years ago there was rather more movement, and eight years since, there was a very great fuss with hard cider, log-cabins, and election songs to all tunes. This afternoon there are scarcely more people in the streets than usual, and very little bustle.

The shrubbery beneath the windows was enlivened to-day by a large flock of very pretty little birds, the golden-crested kinglets, with greenish-yellow and brown bodies, a brilliant carmine spot on the head, encircled with a golden border, and then a black one. They are very small, decidedly less than the common wren, and only a size or two larger than the humming-bird. In this State they are rare birds. They are hardy little creatures, raising their young in the extreme northern parts of the continent, and are chiefly seen here as birds of passage, though remaining through the winter in Pennsylvania. They are indeed great travellers, frequenting the West Indies during the winter months. It is the first time we have ever observed them here, although their kinsmen, the ruby-crowned kinglets, are very common with us, especially in the spring months, when they linger late among our maple-blossoms. The flock about the house to-day was quite large, and they showed themselves several times in the course of the morning, flickering about the lilac and syringa bushes, and hanging on the leafless branches of the creeper trained against the wall.

It is this little bird which is alluded to in Lafontaine's charming fable of the Oak and the Reed; this is the tiny roitelet which the Oak pronounces a heavy burden for the Reed:

"Pour vous un roitelet est un pesant fardeau."

Wednesday, 8th.–November is considered one of the best months for fishing in our lakes; all the more important fish are now taken in their best state.

We have one fish peculiar to this lake; at least, the variety found here is very clearly marked, and differs from any yet discovered elsewhere. It is a shad-salmon, but is commonly called the "Otsego Bass," and is considered one of the finest fresh-water fish in the world. In former years they were so abundant that they were caught by the thousand in seines; on one occasion five thousand are said to have been taken; the people in the village scarcely knew what to do with them; some were salted, others thrown to the hogs. They are still drawn in the seine, being seldom taken by the hook, but their numbers, as might be supposed, have very much diminished. An attempt was made recently to protect them for three years, to allow them to increase again, but after a few months the law was repealed. The best months for the bass-fishing are April, May, and June, and in autumn, November and December; they are caught more or less through the winter, but not during the heats of summer; or, if occasionally one is taken in warm weather, it is out of the usual course of things. The largest bass known here have weighed seven pounds, but they do not often exceed three or four pounds at present. They have a very sweet, fine, white meat, with a dark, gray skin.

The lake trout, or salmon-trout, taken here are also of a superior quality; this same fish, in many other lakes, is considered coarse and tasteless, but here it is frequently met with very delicate and rich, and it finds great favor with epicures. It varies very much, however, with individuals, one being very fine, another quite indifferent. The salmon-trout, in the form we know it, is said to be almost peculiar to our New York lakes; at least this same variety is not found in Canada, nor farther south than Silver Lake, just beyond the borders of Pennsylvania. Our fishermen say the best time for trout-fishing is during the last ten days of November; they are taken, however, at all seasons, but are more common in cool weather. The largest taken here is said to have weighed thirty pounds, and others twenty-five and twenty-seven pounds; within the last dozen years we have seen them weighing sixteen and twelve pounds, but fish of this size have now become very rare. They are caught with the seine or with baited hooks, and are sometimes speared. Some years since, seven or eight hundred were taken at one haul of the seine. In winter, the lake is well sprinkled with baited hooks, sunk through small openings in the ice, and fine salmon-trout are often taken in this way.

The pickerel-fishing also becomes more active at this season; lights are seen now, every evening, passing to and fro along the shores, to attract the pickerel, and a very pretty sight they are. The pickerel is said not to extend beyond the Great Lakes. The largest caught here have weighed seven pounds.

The perch–the yellow perch–is also common in our lake; the largest are said to have weighed between three and four pounds. Besides these our fishermen take eels, dace or roach, suckers, cat-fish, and bull-pouts. Formerly, when the river was not obstructed by so many mill-dams, the herring used to visit this inland lake every year, following the stream, many a long mile from the ocean; they were a very acceptable variety to the common fare in those days, and were so numerous that they were frequently fished up in pails by the first colonists.

Friday, 10th.–Thermometer only 6 above zero, at seven o'clock this morning. "Don't be concerned," say the farmers, "we shall have our Indian summer yet!" One would like to feel sure of it; the very idea warms one such a day as this.

Wednesday, 15th.–There is a strange story going about the village: it is said that several respectable persons have had glimpses of a panther in our hills during the last two months! Probably they have been deceived, for it seems all but incredible that one of these wild creatures should really have appeared in our woods. It is between forty and fifty years since any panther has been heard of in this neighborhood.

Thursday, 16th.–Lovely day; bright air and soft sky. Perhaps the farmers will prove right about the Indian summer, after all. The walking is very bad; the late snow and last night's rain making a sad muss. Still, those who delight in the open air, may verify the old proverb: "Where there is a will there is a way;" one may pick out spots for walking, here and there.

The roads are at their worst just now; the stage-coach was ten hours yesterday coming the twenty-two miles from the railroad. That particular route, however, crossing the hills to the railway and canal, is the worst in the county. In summer, our roads are very good; but for two or three weeks, spring and autumn, they are in a terrible state. And yet they have never been quite as bad as those in the clay soils of the western part of the State; the year before the railroad was completed between Geneva and Canandaigua, a gentleman of the first village, having business of consequence at the latter town early in the spring, was anxious to keep his appointment on a particular day, but he was obliged to give it up; the road, only sixteen miles, was so bad, that no carriage could take him. He made a particular application to the stage-coach proprietors; they were very sorry, but they could not accommodate him; it was quite out of the question: "We have twelve stage-coaches, at this very moment, sir, lying in the mud on that piece of road!" Now, we never heard of a coach being actually left embedded in the mud on this road of ours, bad as it is; the passengers are often obliged to get out, and walk over critical spots; the male passengers are often requested to get out "and hold up the stage for the ladies;" often the coach is upset; frequently coach, passengers, and all sink into the slough to an alarming depth, when rails are taken from the fences to "pry the stage out;" but, by dint of working with a good will, what between the efforts of coachman, horses, and passengers, the whole party generally contrives to reach its destination, in a better or worse condition, somewhere within eighteen hours. They sometimes, however, pass the night on the road.

There are as many as six kinds of birches growing in this State: the canoe birch, the largest of all, sometimes seventy feet high, and three feet in diameter, and which grows as far south as the Catskills; the Indians make their canoes of its bark, sewing them with the fibrous roots of the white spruce. The cherry birch, or black birch, is also a northern variety, and very common here; it is used for cabinet work. Then there is the yellow birch, another northern variety, and a useful tree. The red birch, also a tree of the largest size, is the kind used for brooms. The white birch, a small tree, is of less value than any other; it is quite common in our neighborhood; we have understood, indeed, that all the birches are found in this county, except the little dwarf birch, an Alpine shrub, only a foot or so in height.

Tuesday, 21st.–Again we hear of the panther story. The creature is said to have been actually seen by two respectable persons, in the Beaver Meadows; a woman who was out gathering blackberries saw a large wild animal behind a fallen tree; she was startled, and stopped; the animal, which she believed to be a catamount, got upon the log, and hissed at her like a cat, when she ran away. A man also, who was out with his gun in the woods, a few days later, near the same spot, saw a large wild creature in the distance; he fired, and the animal leaped over a great pile of brush and disappeared. It would be strange, indeed, if a panther were actually roving about our woods!

Pleasant walk. Stopped at the mill to order samp, or cracked corn. It is always pleasant in a mill; things look busy, cheerful, and thrifty there. The miller told us that he ground more Indian corn than anything else; nearly as much buckwheat, and less wheat than either; scarcely any rye, and no oatmeal at all. The amount of wheat ground at our mills is no test, however, of the quantity eaten, for a great deal of wheat flour is brought into the county from the westward.

They grind buckwheat at the village mill all through the summer, for a great deal of this flour is eaten here. In most families of the interior buckwheat cakes are a regular breakfast dish every day through the winter. The French in the provinces eat galettes of the same flour; they call it there blé de Sarrazin as though it had been introduced by the Saracens. It came originally from Central Asia. Montesquieu speaks of these French buckwheat cakes as a very good thing: "Nos galettes de Sarrazin, humectées, toutes brûlantes de ce bon beurre du Mont d'Or, étaient, pour nous, le plus frais régal."

The word sapaen has sometimes been supposed of Indian origin. It is not found in any dictionary that we know of, though in very common use in some parts of the country. Vanderdonck speaks of the dish: "Their common food, and for which their meal is generally used, is pap, or mush, which in the New Netherlands is named sapaen. This is so common among the Indians that they seldom pass a day without it, unless they are on a journey, or hunting. We seldom visit an Indian lodge at any time of the day without seeing their sapaen preparing, or seeing them eating the same. It is the common food of all; young and old eat it; and they are so well accustomed to it, and fond of it, that when they visit our people, or each other, they consider themselves neglected unless they are treated to sapaen." Maize seems, indeed, to have been the chief article of food with those Indians, at least, who lived upon the banks of the Hudson, or in the New Netherlands. Vanderdonck observes, they had several kinds of beans–probably all the native varieties, of which we have several, were cultivated by them. Squashes he mentioned as peculiar to them, and called by the Dutch word Quaasiens, from a similar Indian word. Pumpkins were also cultivated by them, and calabashes, or gourds, which, says he, "are the common water-pails of the Indians." Tobacco is also named as cultivated by them. "Without sapaen," he continues, "they do not eat a satisfactory meal. And when they have an opportunity they boil fish or meat with it, but seldom when the fish or meat is fresh–but when they have the articles dried hard and pounded fine. . . . They also use many dry beans, which they consider dainties. . . . When they intend to go a great distance on a hunting expedition, or to war, . . . they provide themselves severally with a small bag of parched corn or meal; . . . a quarter of a pound is sufficient for a day's subsistence. When they are hungry they eat a small handful of the meal, after which they take a drink of water, and they are so well fed, that they can travel a day. When they can obtain fish or meat to eat, then their meal serves them as well as fine bread would, because it needs no baking." Speaking of their feasts, he says: "On extraordinary occasions, when they wish to entertain any person, then they prepare beavers' tails, bass-heads, with parched corn-meal, or very fat meat stewed, with shelled chestnuts, bruised."–Not a bad dinner, by any means.

Thursday, 23d.–Thanksgiving-day. Lovely weather; beautiful sky for a festival. Pleasant walk. As we came back to the village the bells were ringing, and the good people, in their Sunday attire, were going in different directions to attend public worship. Many shop-windows were half open, however; one eye closed in devotion as it were, the other looking to the main chance.

It was one of the good deeds of the old Puritans, this revival of a Thanksgiving festival; it is true, they are suspected of favoring the custom all the more from their opposition to Christmas; but we ought not to quarrel with any Thanksgiving-day, much less with those who have been the means of adding another pleasant, pious festival to our calendar; so we will, if you please, place the pumpkin-pie at the head of the table to-day.

Friday, 24th.–Evening: 9 o'clock. The lake has been very beautiful all day. In the morning, light gleaming blue; soft and still in the afternoon, sweetly colored by reflections of the hills and sky; and this evening it is quite illuminated by an unusual number of fishing-lights, moving slowly under the shores and across the little bays.

Thursday, 30th.–Pleasant. Long walk in the bare, open woods; neither heard nor saw a bird.

"Le bocage était sans mystère
Le rossignol était sans voix."

The green wheat-fields look vivid and bright lying about the gray farms. The lake is deep blue just now; it seems to be more deeply blue in the autumn that at other seasons; to-day, it is many shades darker than the sky, almost as blue as the water in Guido's Aurora.