yonder, beneath the overhanging branches of that noble oak, while I spread before you the faint picture I would draw from the colorings of memory. Before you, its tiny wavelets breaking with a scarce audible ripple upon the rock at your feet, and again, its broad surface, stretching some eight miles across to the foot of yonder mountain, and in length a score of miles, lies as noble and as wildly beautiful a lake as you can find even amid the romantic lochs of Scotland. Around you on every side, as far as the eye can reach, rise in irregular succession the firm old granite hills; while the forest near and far glows in the sunlight with every color of the changing leaf. It is nigh sunset, and the few clouds floating above us are reflected in broken lines upon the tremulous surface of the water. Over yonder, see those lofty and pine clad mountains! around which distance and the trembling light have thrown a beautiful coloring; the trees, reaching down to the water's edge, and covering the summit, remove all angular disfigurements in outline, until the whole seems blended and rounded as if it stood before you the work, not of nature, but of art. The soft and low murmuring of distant rapids fills your ear, if you will but turn your head to the southward, for we have struck the lake not far from its outlet into the Androscoggin, and the tumult of its dashing waters even now reaches

us.

The sunlight straying through the occasional openings in the forest we have left, falls faintly and softly upon the water at your feet, while that irregular line of shadow, far up towards the north, marks the rough and grotesque form of the wooded shore, stretching away till its outline is lost in the dim and shadowy distance.

A bright fire is glowing and crackling some few yards in the woods behind us, and by the foot of yonder venerable pine, you may catch a glimpse of our various plunder.

But, see, a swimmer approaches us. He is sporting with the tiny waves, and now he nears us with strong and rapid stroke, shaking the clear water from his flaxen curls, and ever and anon, see how his white but sinewy chest flashes in the sunlight. He leaves the water, panting and dripping like a water god, and straight he presses forward for an introduction-Reader- -Piscator.

Again, casting your eye up along the line of the shore, do you see yon tall ungainly form, urging ahead with steady pull a crazy looking craft, and now as he nears us, you may easily distinguish the lean proportions of our quondam friend and guide, "Honest Joe."

Now, since we are once more fairly acquainted, let us shake hands in a hearty humor, and, since the boat our trusty guide has succeeded in 'developing' from its hiding place, will hardly accommodate four, be so kind, reader, as to disenchant yourself, and conceive, as perhaps is really the case, that you are seated by the side of your warm and cheery fire; if so, give the coals another poke, man; fill your best pipe with the "Fine Old Mild" at your elbow; place your heels more Americano upon the mantel, and listen while I strive to draw your mind from the cold and stormy Present, into the warm, gay sunshine of the Past:

ON THE LAKE.

Spring to the oars!" and at the word, the light frail craft danced gaily over the dark waters of the lake. "Again, again," and the boat, yielding to the heavy stroke, springs merrily onward and onward to the music of the bending oars. See! the mountains are throwing their shadows far out upon the lake; the cool air of the evening is settling in upon us; and far, far away behind us, the gray summit of the loftiest of the White Hills has faded into darkness. "Give way! give way!" and with rapid stroke we leave the open surface of the lake and shoot swiftly into the narrow channel that connects the lower with the upper bay. Now the level and dark line of the forest upon our left throws its gloomy shadow about us, while the last rays of the setting sun have tinged the lofty ridges upon our right with inexpressible glory. See the outermost blazes as if burnished with gold; the next tingled with the soft color of the violet, the third overcast with a purple light, while darker and darker grow the shades, till the last mingles its sombre hue with the dark waters at its base, where, reflected in reversed order, the same tints glow as brightly, mirrored far, far down below. And now 'tis Twilight-soft, dreamy, beautiful Twilight! The brightness of noonday, the darkness of midnight, mingled like colors upon canvas in the sombre shadows of twilight. Unearthly hour! how like to that in which, when the good man's life is ebbing fast, the brightness and action of Life mingle and play awhile with the grim shadows of the Dark Valley, as it were Life itself, brightening for a moment ere it sinks into eternal Slumber. Romantic hour!-when at Fancy's call, spirits of unearthly form fill the covert of the forest and trip over the curling waves-where elves and the joyous train of the fairy queen, peeps forth upon the world to watch the coming of the moonbeam-when weird and fitful sounds are heard, as if unearthly hands playing upon unearthly instruments, sent strange music through the dark aisles of the forest, to pour itself soft and wild over the still, sleeping waters of the lake.

But, hillo, reader! while we have been rambling away into cloud. land, the shadows have deepened into darkness; already it is nighttime, and the stars have started out in the clear northern sky, as if they were windows in yon dark vault to let the glory of Heaven in upon a sleeping world. Hark! with a sharp, quick sound the keel grates upon the shore. Weary and hungry we quit the boat, and guided by a faint light twinkling in the windows of a distant farm-house, plod wearily along the beaten path till we reach the portals of a solitary tenement, which the "foreknowledge" of Joe had destined to shelter us for the night. A tow-headed youngster, who had watched our progress since we neared the house with true New England curiosity, fled at our near approach, to give warning of the arrival. A loud rap at the door brought forth for our reception, not the grim backwoodsman we had anticipated, but a soft voiced, gentle looking little woman, who, upon seeing our plight, quietly invited us in. The tone, the manner, was enough, and as perhaps, reader, you will appreciate the distinction

we felt, as we crossed the threshold, took off our ragged hats, and deposited our plunder by the hearth-stone, we felt that we were the guests of a lady. Oh, Joe, that one pleasurable disappointment shall, as I summon your lean, lank form before me in the "dim moonlight of memory," serve as your atonement for the many mishaps and luckless wanderings your blundering stupidity cost us.

A single hurried look cast around the half finished and dreary apartment, together with its occupants, told the whole story. "By Jove, Piscator, 'tis the old story over again. I see it all, my boy-married young-happy once-husband turned drunkard-left the settlementturned trapper, and leaves his poor, little wife, uncared for in this wild, unprotected place, to entertain chance wanderers like ourselves. Looks broken-hearted, don't she? Deuced pretty, though." Now I am willing to confess to you, reader, that if there exists any soft spot around my heart for the gentler sex to work upon, it has a strange connection with the sight of your poor, little, suffering, uncomplaining womenthe music of whose hearts has long ceased to play, for the strings of the instrument have well nigh snapped, and in whose eyes, Fancy sees continually a tear.

But see our little hostess, how quietly and yet busily she moves about the room, preparing the best her poor stock affords for the wanderers' meal-now diving into some mysterious pantry or hiding-place, and bearing forth a few of her chosen "tea-things," those relics of better days that a woman's heart will cling to in spite of fortune-now looking after the Johnny-cake browning so cosily by the blazing fire, and now turning aside to still with a soft word and motherly caress the sickly looking occupant of yonder cradle, whose plaintive cry starts her at times, as if it were a sudden recollection of happier days flashing across her memory!

But look! see, Piscator has left his warm corner by the fire, and though he counts himself a bashful man, still the "manner" of the heart spoke then, when throwing down his rough hat, and giving his long tangled hair a brush back, he offered with kindliest grace to quiet the little moaning sufferer in the corner. Well, reader, I have often heard of the joy and music of a smile, but you might have surely felt both, could you have seen the thankful look and faint smile that lighted up that sad, care-worn face, as she accepted the offer of our friend. Confound the fellow! I never envied him when he drew "the big trout" from the rapid waters of the Diamond,' or sent his ball, at sixty yards, an inch nearer than my own'; but the memory of that smile haunted me, and for once I was jealous of noble old Piscator.

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Supper being announced, we were soon seated around the rude table, when the fortunes of the day, together with the Johnny-cake, were duly discussed; and here let me state one piece of advice which, should any one ever feel prompted to take a trip to the wild woods, he had best remember: in the shape of advice, it is simply, to go provided with good fresh tea, an article seldom found out of the settlements, and my word for it, a single cup of strong tea will afford more solace and refreshment than all the spirits' you can carry. Far be it from me to

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disparage the Rosy,' for then might the "gray goose-quill" refuse its office, and the dear memory of many a merrie hour, spent in the lordliest fellowship, depart; when wit and humor, the cheering song and glad chorus, with all the delightful vanities of life, shone and sparkled amid the gloom of the real and the commonplace. Forest life needs no artificial stimulous. You may need refreshment, and what I urge is simply that you will find it more surely in

"The mild witchery of the Indian plant,"

than in the irregular excitement of the liquor flask. Now that my homily is finished, let us return to the lone farm-house in the woods. Supper over, a quiet smoke by the bright fire,—a chat with our gentle hostess, as she sat, whiling away her loneliness, woman-like, with sewing by the light of a miserable dip that shed its sickly light over the gloomy room, a yawn or two from the trio, and we followed her of the sorrowful eye through a succession of bare, unfinished rooms, such as only can be found in a new home,' until we found ourselves ushered into the crib that was to afford us the rest we craved. A straw bed, not over large, a rough stand, covered with books, old mutilated magazines and some ragged newspapers of venerable age, a couple of rickety chairs, and our dormitory is before you.

Urged, by what motive I know not, Piscator opened the first book that met his eye, and although we were about depositing our weary frame by the side of Joe, he mercilessly interrupted our progress: Hillo, Charley, I say, here's a library for the backwoods. Kirke White's Poems, and no mistake. This tells the story-leaf turned down, and pencil marks all along. Listen, man:

"Come, Disappointment, come,
Not in thy terrors clad,

Come in thy meekest, saddest guise;

Thy chastening rod but terrifies

The restless and the bad;

But I recline

Beneath thy shrine,

And round my brow resigned, thy peaceful cypress twine.

"There man, hold on; I'm off, Piscator. D-n your sentiment." What followed we know not.

I had thrown open the window to admit a supply of fresh air into the small, unventilated apartment, and standing by the sill, was quietly enjoying the pleasure of contrasting the sweet, wild notes of a whip-poor-will from a neighboring tree, with the deep sepulchral snore that occasionally welled up from the inmost recesses of poor Joe, when the sound of approaching voices, in loud and angry tones, mingled with

6

threats and curses, fell upon my ear. The truth flashed at once across my mind—it was the drunkard, with his renegade companions, returning from their traps. Another ear than mine had also distinguished the sounds, for a soft, plaintive voice, accompanied with loud knocking at our door, begged us to come out-" For husband had come home, and he might hurt her, and the baby was so sick." "Hurt the de-1, (we hope that last was unheard.) Whew, here's fun! Turn out, boys, rub your eyes, and clear for action. Where's the rifle, Joe ?"-" Outside!" " Hard that; never mind, there's but four of them, and drunk at that." A few seconds elapsed before we were dressed and in the kitchen. It was time. Sure enough, there was only four of them ;-three, half drunk, were busily employed in destroying every article of household wear they could lay their hands on; while the fourth, who, to judge by appearances, was the husband, holding by her small white wrists, the form of her he had sworn to protect, was demanding with terrible threats the key to the liquor closet. Our sudden eruption evidently astonished him not a little; and loosening the hold upon his wife, the little woman made good her retreat by darting through an open door into another room; just in time, by the way, to escape seeing her ruffian husband fall headlong over the empty cradle, felled like an ox by the strong hand of Piscator. "Charge 'em, boys!" and the old rafters rung with the cheer we gave as we closed in on the drunken scoundrels. It could hardly be called a fight, and what there was, was over in a moment. Joe proved himself a very trump, putting in his right and left' with the force and precision of a prize-fighter. Down they went, with hardly a show of resistance the surprise, and the liquor they had taken, utterly incapacitated them for action with three hearty young fellows, rendered doubly strong by the goodness of their cause. A rough little fellow, in a red flannel shirt, with a most diabolical squint in his eyes, fell to my share in the melee. He was evidently bent upon coming to close quarters, but judging from his tight build that I could dispense with so intimate an acquaintance, I put in what John Sheridan used to call a 66 sharp left-hander," which, followed by a short 'rally,' completely settled his 'hash.' The enemy being utterly discomfited, I was looking around for our protege, of whom the last that was seen was a white dress and a whiter foot dodging round the corner of the door, and felicitating myself with the idea that my valor was to be rewarded by her sweet lips, when, lo! a strong sudden kick, and I found myself landed in the middle of our sleeping apartment, wide awake. Joe, unfortunate man, had indeed suffered by my chivalrous dream, (for dream it certainly was, reader-would to God it had been true, merely for the fun of the thing.) I had been practising my one, two and return' into the small' of his back, by all accounts, (Piscator had been awake, it appeared, enjoying the sport,) for the space of some five minutes, but Joe being rather a sound sleeper had hardly noticed it until awakening with a curious sensation in the back of his headwhere I had planted my last-with one vigorous kick, he had put me fairly hors-du-combat. Alas, poor Joe, I am to this day inclined to think, however, that you got the worst of that Nocturnal Attack.