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Rh fear, most days that pass over us. Most of these are connected with rural life, and have doubtless come from the other side of the ocean; one of the pleasantest, however, may possibly be traced back to the Indians—the humming-bird and its love-message.

In passing through the woods, we looked about for the ruins of the old tree, but none of our party knew exactly where it had stood. We had soon crossed the hill, and Oakdale, with its little hamlet, opened before us. Its broad shallow stream turns several mills, one of them a paper-mill, where rags from over the ocean are turned into sheets for Yankee newspapers. One of the few sycamores in the neighborhood stands by the bridge.

Saturday, 4th.—Cloudy, and toward evening rainy; I fear our pleasant weather is over. Monday, 6th.—Mild. Heavy rain all night, and raining still this morning. About 10 o'clock some flakes of snow mingled with the rain—then sleet—then, rather to our surprise, a regular fall of snow, continuing until afternoon. The whole country white with it, to the depth of an inch or two. Yet the air is mild to-day. Thus it is: the leaves have hardly fallen before winter advances; shreds of colored foliage are still hanging on some trees and shrubs. The little weeping-willow is in full leaf, bending under the snow.

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