In a wood, a heap or pile of logs and sticks that had been cut for
firewood, and piled up square, in order to be carted away to the house
when convenience served, or rather to be sledded in sleighing-time. But
the moss had accumulated on them, and, leaves falling over them from
year to year, and decaying, a kind of soil had quite covered them,
although the softened outline of the woodpile was perceptible in the
green mound. It was perhaps fifty years, perhaps more, since the woodman
had cut and piled these logs and sticks, intending them for his winter
fire. But he probably needs no fire now. There was something strangely
interesting in this simple circumstance. Imagine the long-dead woodman,
and his long-dead wife and family, and one old man who was a little
child when the wood was cut, coming back from their graves, and trying
to make a fire with this mossy fuel.

* * * * *

_September 19._--Lying by the lake yesterday afternoon, with my eyes
shut, while the breeze and sunshine were playing together on the water,
the quick glimmer of the wavelets was perceptible through my closed
eyelids.

* * * * *

_October 13._--A cool day,--the wind northwest, with a general
prevalence of dull gray clouds over the sky, but with brief, sudden
glimpses of sunshine. The foliage having its autumn hues, Monument
Mountain looks like a headless Sphinx, wrapt in a rich Persian shawl.
Yesterday, through a diffused mist, with the sun shining on it, it had
the aspect of burnished copper. The sun-gleams on the hills are