Johnston a handsome lashing, for his very bad caricatures : I am sure he deserves it.

But my journal is growing quite long, and I close for the present. I intend, at some future time, to visit the good city of Boston - especially if my comments on the other cities are relished.

SPRING-NOTES OF THE HUMMING-BIRD.

FAR away, and away, through the filmy air,
For the North, for the North, away!
Oh, sweet are these odorous roses and fair;

But the wild yellow balsams await us there;

And the trumpet-flowers, through the wild vines, flare
And the dark forest-edges array.

And we 'll fear not our onward path to take,

Far, far, through the trackless sky ;

Near the verdant earth, our journey we'll make,

And float o'er the green and feathery brake,

And blossoms, that border the silvery lake,
Or, in the savanna-breeze, sigh.

Oh, good are our fairy-like wings at need,
To wander from zone to zone;

To glance o'er the green and flowery mead,

And the broad prairie-lands, with arrowy speed;

For our rapid flight, not the rays exceed

Shot forth from the diamond-stone.

We'll leave the bright South, with its evergreen bowers,

And come with the summer and go;

Nor the feeblest shall fail, in this host of ours ;

For our wings He will nerve, whose sunshine and showers
Spread wide, o'er the earth, our banquet of flowers,
A fair and a glorious show!

L.

181

THE FIGHT OF THE FALLS.

THE reader who is familiar with the broad basin of water, where the Connecticut sweeps round in a quarter of a circle, before it tumbles over the cascade at Turner's falls, will remember a scene, that is throughout very placid and quiet above the falls, and very wild and turbulent below them. The water, the woods and meadows, on the upper side, present a uniform and unbroken appearance; and when the sun of a fine day throws into contrast the deep green of the woods and the lighter green of the grass upon the banks of the river, the whole is very serene and soft — inviting you to a drowsiness, which is gently encouraged by the sound of the water, dashing on the rocks, far below. Few other noises are heard there, unless it be now and then the quick, flat, clapping sound of a plank, falling on some raft, that is sailing down the river; or the grating of the old ferryman's wire, as he' pulls his boat across the basin. Occasionally, however, a shallow barge, with a large square-sail set low upon its mast, shoots out of the canal, that runs round the falls; and the boatmen are heard singing a song. There are creeks, too, half a mile above the ferry, which run back among high rocks and overhanging woods, where the water has no motion, and where you may rest all day long in your skiff, forgetting-so deep is the stillness-that there is such a thing as time. But, immediately below the falls, and as far as the eye can reach down the channel of the river, everything is wild, abrupt, and broken. The broad stream takes its course along the base of a high, rocky mountain, that stretches parallel with the water, and looks like a great portion of the earth's back-bone, protruding through its surface. The pines, that grow on the sides of this ridge, are irregular and jagged, and many of the larger ones have fallen, from want of soil; overcoming their feeble hold on the rocks, by their own weight. The bed of the river is a mass of broken rocks, that keep the waters in a constant boil, long after they have escaped from the tumult just beneath the cascade itself. There is a feeling of insecurity enough to make you dismount your horse as you wind around the corner of the abrupt rock, where the road brings you in sight of the falls; for the precipice, on your right, is several hundred feet perpendicular to the bed of the river, and nothing but certain destruction could be the fate of man or beast, that should go down there.

Like the great cataract of the West, Turner's falls has an island in the centre. Indeed, it is the Niagara' of the neighborhood, in more than one of its features; for it is shaped like a horse-shoe, and you may see a rainbow there any day when the

sun shines. The little island, of a quarter of an acre

the ferryman can row you down to it—is the best point from which to see the striking contrast between the scenery above and that below the falls; and, if you have ever seen it, you will agree with me, that the whole is singularly in keeping with the contrast between an evening and a morning that once passed over that spot, in the year 1675.

Philip, the great sachem of the Pokanokets, had long had in agitation a plan for the union of his own tribe and the Narragansets with the Mohawks, against the English. For the purpose of a more ready communication with the latter nation, he had passed the winter of '75, with about three hundred of his tribe men,

women, and children on the Connecticut, at the place we have described. The spring had almost bloomed into summer, when his spies who kept up a constant intercourse between his quarters and those of the Mohawks, on the North river- brought him word, that that people had finally refused the alliance he had been so long endeavoring to negociate. They had learned that he himself had murdered some of their men, for the sake of exasperating them against the English, insinuating that it had been done by them. All intercourse between the two tribes being thus cut short, by the discovery of his treachery, he prepared to proceed southward, on the very day when the battle, or rather the massacre, which we are about to relate, took place.

It was about noon, on the sixteenth of May, 1675, when a body of one hundred and fifty men rode slowly into the village of Hatfield, commanded by a pale and emaciated young man, who seemed to retain his seat in the saddle only with the greatest difficulty. The men under his command, consisted of a small force, from the militia of Northampton and Springfield, and a larger body of the colony troops, who had accompanied the officer from Boston. They had been despatched for the defence of the towns on the Connecticut; and the orders given to captain Turner, by the governor, were, to destroy the power of the Indians in that neighborhood-to ascertain, and, if possible, to break up the head-quarters of Philip. It was a period of sore trouble and suffering to the colony; when no man went abroad into his field without his rifle, pouch and horn; and when no family lay down at night, without the anticipation of being roused by the yell of the savage. It was, therefore, with no small joy, that the inhabitants of these towns saw a force, so numerous and well-armed, sent to their protection; and, to the village which they had just entered, their coming was a source of inexpressible relief. Two days before, a large body of Indians had swept into the town, and carried off several women, who had not been able, from the suddenness of the attack, to quit their avocations and seek shelter in the strong-house, or fort, which was then always

found in the frontier towns. Among the persons thus captured, was the only daughter of Mr. Atherton, the clergyman of the village. The distracted parent had now been awaiting the arrival of these troops - which were known to be on their march-for forty-eight hours, until his heart grew sick with hope deferred; he assembled his parishioners, and besought them to arm themselves, and follow him on the track of the natives. Those who had lost sister, wife, or child, were eager to set out; but the rest, though kind and ready, knew too well that the rescue could never be effected by so small a band as that which they mustered; they would go, if their minister wished it; but they entreated him to wait a few hours longer. Their deliberations were interrupted by the joyful news, that the troops were approaching, and Mr. Atherton hastened to receive the officer, and communicate with him as to their march.

The officer, Captain Turner, it appeared had been very ill; and when he left Boston, was scarce able to mount his horse. The journey, however, had recruited him; and he declared himself ready to march to the falls a distance of about twenty miles as soon as his troops had taken some refreshment. Mr. Atherton, and several of his people, resolved to accompany the expedition. They had little doubt of the present safety of their kindred, who had been carried off by Philip's men ; for he could have nothing to gain by their destruction, which must be followed by the severe vengeance of the English. It was therefore confidently hoped that, if they could surprise the enemy during the night, the rescue of the captives, and their restoration to their homes, would be effected.

The whole of that fine valley, that now stretches from Northampton to the boundary line of Vermont - filled with sweeping meadows, that run to the foot of the numerous ridges, which branch out in all directions from the Green Mountains — was then a vast wilderness. On the western side of the Connecticut, two streams crept out from the mountains, and flowed sluggishly through a great swamp, which then spread over the beautiful plains where the villages of Deerfield and Greenfield now stand. The little army, now on its march for the Great Falls, reached one of these streams, near the seat now called Meadow Banks, an hour after the evening had set in. The first step of the horses of those in the advance, as they plashed across the shallow stream, roused a small party of Indians, who were then lying a few rods below. One of their number, who went out to reconnoitre, returned with the report, that the noise was occasioned by the moose crossing the stream; and thus the whole party of the English crossed without discovery. They then pushed on through the woods, and reached the foot of the high ridge, which separates the view of the Great Falls from the country on the west

ern side of the river, about an hour before the dawn of day. Here they dismounted, and secured their tired horses to the branches of trees and bushes; and having prepared their firelocks and ammunition, were summoned by the officer to prayer. The light of the moon, as it struggled down through the trees, gave a fine effect to the scene. Above, arose the huge pines, through whose fine foliage the breeze whispered a constant and plaintive sigh; and the deep voice of the fall, in its unbroken and uniform roar, came rising over the hill, and seemed to take up their supplication, and bear it floating over meadow, rock and wood. The voice of man chimed, in a strange and fearful harmony, with these voices of nature; and, as the various sounds mingled, clear and distinct, in the cold air of the morning, it seemed to the worshippers as if the powers of the elements had united in their design.

The party then crossed over the steep ridge, and formed around the narrow meadow, where the Indian camp lay before them. A woman, the only person stirring in the camp, discorered the Eglishmen lurking among the trees, and shouted, to arouse the warriors, who lay around and in the tents. But they did not hear her cry; for, at the same instant, and drowning every other sound, a volley of musketry brought the savages upon their feet, and echoed with a deafening roar up and down the valley of the river. From out the little wood, two hundred white men poured down the meadow, and surrounded the camp, in a semicircle, each end of which rested upon the stream, and left to the Indians no escape, but by means of their canoes. Terrified, without their arms, and impeded by the women and children who clung to them, they rushed into their boats and launched them upon the river, where they were exposed, without paddles, to the fire of the whites. For a while, they struggled against the stream. with pieces of bark torn from the sides of the canoes; but the sure, steady, heavy current bore them slowly on to their fate; and when they saw it was inevitable, they sent up a long, piercing shriek, and then sunk down, in sullen despair, to await the awful plunge of the cataract, down which they were hurrying. As each little vessel approached the brink, it seemed to pause for a second, as if to give its wretched passengers a last farewell of the beautiful world, which they were thus quitting, through the agency of one of its most beautiful objects. A single ray of the just rising sun shot through a gulley, in the eastern bank of the river, and glanced across upon the edge of the fall; and as each canoe passed swiftly out of the shade, the still forms of the savages flashed out, for an instant, into bright relief against the dark torrent beneath them, and were then plunged into the boiling depths, to be cast up, mangled and bleeding, upon the rocks below. It was a fearful sight— this destruction of human life, by