I JOT this mem. in a wild scene of woods and hills, where we have come to visit a waterfall. I never saw finer or more copious hemlocks, many of them large, some old and hoary. Such a sentiment to them, secretive, shaggywhat I call weather-beaten and let-alonea rich underlay of ferns, yew sprouts and mosses, beginning to be spotted with the early summer wild-flowers. Enveloping all, the monotone and liquid gurgle from the hoarse impetuous copious fallthe greenish-tawny, darkly transparent waters, plunging with velocity down the rocks, with patches of milk-white foama stream of hurrying amber, thirty feet wide, risen far back in the hills and woods, now rushing with volumeevery hundred rods a fall, and sometimes three or four in that distance. A primitive forest, druidical, solitary and savagenot ten visitors a yearbroken rocks everywhereshade overhead, thick underfoot with leavesa just palpable wild and delicate aroma.