verge of the fall the river was open; but over the fall itself there was a thin coating of transparent ice, which clung to the perpendicular cliffs on each side of the narrow gap, forming a gauzelike veil. The towering cliffs around were covered with a frosting of ice; and from the stunted pines which clung to the barren rock, hung myriads of fantastic icicles. At the foot of the fall, the blue water rushed out, dashing the white foam many feet in the air; and through the thick woods which overhung the cascade, the sun cast his rays upon the gorgeous prospect, making every object throw forth a thousand brilliant shades, and the glittering ice which encircled the fall was so transparent, that the blue water could be seen beneath dashing furiously down, as if enraged at restraint. Not ten feet from the verge of the fall, on a rock in the centre of the river, stood the wounded caraboo. The water around him was fearfully rapid-one false step would carry him under the ice, and down the fall. On the bank stood the dog: my first care was to secure him, as he appeared ready every instant to make a spring that must have been fatal. The caraboo had chosen a most admirable place of retreat; nothing living could approach him with safety. On each side the perpendicular cliffs towered many feet over his head-before him the roaring torrent, and behind the ice-bound cataract. After feasting my eyes on this wild and romantic scene, I approached as near the fall as the rugged cliff would permit. The caraboo saw me, and with glaring eyeballs he shook his branching antlers in impotent rage, presenting to my rifle his broad front, as in defiance. I am not ashamed to say I was happy when I glanced at the rapid water and rugged cliff between me and my devoted prey; for I have no doubt had it been in his power he would have soon shortened the distance between us-and after what I had so lately witnessed, I had no very great desire (seeing I was not as yet a perfect harlequin on shoe-shoes,) to play the same game over again with my friend on the rock. To put an end to his wishes and my fears, I presented. My ball took effect directly in his brain, and he quietly dropped into the stream, leaving me master of the field. The next moment I could see, through the transparent ice, his glossy hide gliding down the cascade.

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"Well hit !'-cried Howard, who had come up in time to see the shot, we must hasten round and try to recover your game.' Taking a circuit to avoid the cliffs, we soon arrived at the pool at the foot of the fall, but did not discover our caraboo. Hark forward!' said Howard,- for see, the dog has more sense than we, or why stand we here staring at this rapid water; our quarry must be carried down, and Billy has gone off in search.' A sharp walk of some five minutes brought us to a rocky shallow, and there with joy I saw the dead caraboo quietly rolling down the stream, Billy using all his strength to pull the heavy carcass to the bank. Howard, after a moment's thought, dashed down the bank for some distance, and selecting a small tree near the water, soon felled it, so that it dropped directly across the stream. The game soon drifted against this impediment, and with little difficulty we dragged it out. As it is late,' said Howard,' we must hoist this fellow up in a tree, out of the reach of the forest prowlers, and make for home-Sabatisie, who has gone on, will have supper ready.'

"We bled and disembowelled the caraboo; and while Billy feasted on the rich dark blood that stained the ice, we, not without difficulty, hoisted our game on the bough of a pine, and then made tracks for our camp. The stars had for some time gained ascendency in the clear sky ere we reached our rendezvous, and I could discover the savoury steam of the venison stew, long before our eyes could welcome our little camp."

BEAR HUNTING IN ARKANSAS.

WITH A SKETCH OF “BOB HERRING," OF “THE DEVIL'S SUMMER RETREAT."

BY T. B. THORPE, ESQ.

AUTHOR OF THE MYSTERIES OF THE BACKWOODS," ETC., ETC.

"It is not expected that a faithful description of the Devil's Summer Retreat, in Arkansas, will turn the current of fashion of

two worlds, from Brighton and Bath, or from Ballston or Saratoga, although the residents in the neighbourhood of that delightful place, profess to have ocular demonstration, as well as popular opinion, that his Satanic Majesty, in warm weather, regularly retires to the 'retreat,'' and there reclines in the cool.' The solemn grandeur that surrounds this distinguished resort, is worthy of the hero, as represented by Milton; its characteristics are darkness, gloom, and mystery; it is composed of the unrivalled vegetation and forest, of the Mississippi Valley. View it when you will, whether decked out in all the luxuriance of a southern summer, or stripped of its foliage by the winter's blast; it matters not, its grandeur is always sombre. The huge trees seem immortal, their roots look as if they struck to the centre of the earth, while the gnarled limbs reach out to the clouds. Here and there may be seen one of these lordly specimens of vegetation, furrowed by the lightning; from its top to the base you can trace the subtle fluid in its descent, and see where it shattered off the limb, larger than your body, or turned aside from some slight inequality in the bark. These stricken trees, no longer able to repel the numerous parasites that surround them, soon become festooned with wreaths and flowers, while the damp airs engender on living tree and dead, like funeral drapery, the pendant moss, that waves in every breeze, and seems to cover the whole scene with the gloom of the grave. Rising out of this forest for ten square miles, is the dense cane-brake that bears the name of the Devil's Summer Retreat ;' it is formed by a space of ground, which seemingly, from its superiority of soil, more delicate vegetation than surrounds it has usurped its empire. Here the reed, that disciple of Izaak Walton plays over the northern streams like a wand, grows into a delicate mast, springing from the rich alluvium that gives it sustenance with the prodigality of grass, and tapering from its roots to the height of twenty or thirty feet, there mingling in compact and luxuriant confusion its long leaves. A portion of this brake is interwoven with vines of all descriptions, which makes it so thick that it seems to be impenetrable as a mountain. Here, in this solitude, where the noonday sun never penetrates, ten thousand birds, with the instinct of safety, roost at night, and at the dawn of day, for a

while darken the air as they seek their haunts, the manure deadening for acres round the vegetation like a fire, so long have they possessed the solitude. Around this mass of cane and vine, the black bear retire for winter quarters, where they pass the season, if not disturbed, in the insensibility of sleep, and yet come out in the spring as fat as when they commenced their long nap. The forest, the waste, and the dangers of the cane-brake, add to the excitement of the Arkansas hunter; he conquers them all, and makes them subservient to his pursuits. Associated with these scenes, they to him possess no sentiment; he builds his log cabin in a clearing made by his own hands, amid the surrounding grandeur, and it looks like a gipsy hut among the ruins of a Gothic cathedral. The noblest trees are only valuable for fencerails, and the cane-brake is an infernal dark hole,' where you can see sights, catch bear,' and 'get a fish-pole, ranging in size from a penny whistle, to that of a young stove-pipe.'

"The undoubted hero of the Devil's Summer Retreat, is old Bob Herring; he has a character that would puzzle three hundred metaphysicians consecutively. He is as bold as a lion, and as superstitious as an Indian. The exact place of his birth he cannot tell, as he says his parents 'travelled' as long as he can remember them. He'squatted' on the Mississippi, at its nearest point to the Retreat, and there erecting a rude cabin, commenced hunting for a living, having no prospect ahead but selling out his 'pre-emption right' and improvements, and again squatting somewhere else. Unfortunately, the extent of Arkansas, and the swamp that surrounded Bob's location, kept it out of market, until, to use his own language, he became the ancientest inhabitant in the hull of Arkansaw.' And having in spite of himself, gradually formed acquaintances with the few residents in this vicinity, and grown into importance from his knowledge of the country and his hunting exploits, he has established himself for life, at what he calls the Wasps' diggins,' made a potato patch, which he has never had time to fence in, talked largely of a cornfield, and hung his cabin round with rifle pouches, gourds, redpeppers, and flaming advertisements with rampant horses and pedigrees; these latter ornaments he looks upon as rather sentimental, but he excuses himself on the ground that they look

'hoss,' and he considers such an expression as considerably resembling himself. We have stated that Bob's mind would puzzle three hundred metaphysicians consecutively, and we as boldly assert, that an equal number of physiologists would be brought to a stand by his personal appearance. The left side of his face is good-looking, but the right side seemed to be under the influence of an invisible air-pump; it looks sucked out of shape; his perpendicular height is six feet one inch, but that gives the same idea of his length, that the diameter gives of the circumference; how long Bob Herring would be, if he was drawn out, is impossible to tell. Bob himself says, that he was made on too tall a scale for this world, and that he was shoved in, like the joints of a telescope. Poor in flesh, his enormous bones and joints rattle when he moves, and they would, no doubt, have long since fallen apart, but for the enormous tendons that bind them together as visibly as a good-sized hawser would. Such is Bob Herring, who on a bear hunt will do more hard work, crack more jokes, and be more active than any man living, sustaining the whole with unflinching good humour, never getting angry except when he breaks his whiskey bottle, or has a favourite dog open on the wrong trail.

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My first visit to the Devil's Summer Retreat was propitious, my companions were all choice spirits, the weather was fine, and Bob Herring inimitable. The bustling scene that prefaced the 'striking the camp' for night lodgings was picturesque and animated; a long ride brought us to our halting-place, and there was great relief in again stepping on the ground. Having hobbled our horses, we next proceeded to build a fire, which was facilitated by taking advantage of a dead tree for a back-log; our saddles, guns, and other necessaries were brought within the circle of its light, and lolling upon the ground we partook of a frugal supper, the better to be prepared for our morrow's exertions, and our anticipated breakfast. Beds were next made up, and few can be better than a good supply of cane-tops, covered with a blanket, with a saddle for a pillow; upon such a rude couch, the hunter sleeps more soundly than the effeminate citizen on his down. The crescent moon, with her attendant stars, studded the canopy under which we slept, and the blazing fire