started to cut off the timber, but their hands were stayed in time. All around were the great pines, and under foot the soft, brown carpet of needles. The forest is on a neck of land between two tidal rivers, and the owner had cut out a narrow path straight to the water, through which the sparkling waves could be seen, reminding one of the vista at the Soldiers' Home in Washington. The cabin, for it was only that, was on the edge of the clearing so as to get the sunshine. It was about thirty by twenty-five feet on the ground. The frame was of young pines (selected on account of the moss upon them) and the timbers were on the inside and exposed. The outside was made of a double layer of old, gray, weather-worn fence boards. The sideboard was made of the same, while the mantle Xxxii-20 over the enormous fireplace was a great plank picked up among the driftwood of the shore, and worn and seamed as though by the storms of a thousand years. There was a broad piazza in front, made by a prolongation of the roof, and supported by great pine posts in the state of nature, and there was an addition with a first rate little kitchen in it, and a woodshed. Inside, the effect was all of soft greens and grays, while the long, rough dining table was stained a deep, dark red. Heavy shutters protected the windows at night and when the owner was away, while the door, massive enough for a castle, was made of plank, supported by long, wrought-iron hinges. The lock had been picked up at some old junk shop, and was a foot square, and had a key that weighed nearly half a pound. Wrought-iron side brackets of old design held lamps for its lighting. When evening came, the great fire roaring in the fireplace, cast its ruddy light back into the dark interior, throwing flickering lights and shadows on the gray boards, and on the faces around the hearth. The curling smoke from our cigars eddied among the mosscovered rafters, and as we had dined most bountifully, we had that feeling of perfect contentment and satisfaction known only to dogs, men, and a few other civilized animals. I got up just about daybreak and without disturbing the others stepped out upon the piazza. There was that soft, gray light which just precedes the dawn, and which I dearly love. The air was cool and penetrating, dew was dripping from the leaves and bushes, a sort of mist hung in the upper branches of the tall pines, while nearby objects looked distant and phantasmal. Here and there was a little, soft, plaintive bird note, as though its owner were rubbing its eyes and yawning, and over all was the great stillness of the forest. Slipping back into the house I put on my clothes without waking the others and followed the straight path down through the dripping woods to the river. As I went along I woke the birds and squirrels, and there was a shrill cry here, a whirr there, or a crackling scamper in the brush. When I stepped out upon the high knoll overlooking the river, the water looked gray and cold, and just stippled here and there with rising mist. The tide was beginning to ebb, and I could hear the sound of oars in rowlocks somewhere beyond the point below. The water slid softly by at my feet, the long grasses swayed gracefully as the current rushed through them, and on the limb of a dead oak sat a great fish hawk, his keen eyes alternately looking at me and at the water for his breakfast. There was a salt smell mixed with the odor of the damp ground which was simply delicious. I stayed until the sun shot its first golden ray over the river, and was greeted on my return by the merry shouts of my companions and the aroma of coffee, which made my happiness complete. What is there like the smell of coffee out in camp in the cool of the early morning? I could go on for hours describing the joys of camp life, but I must not. There are those men and women who see no pleasure in it, but they are few, and God has left something out of their natures. To the majority it is pure happiness, and it does worlds of good. Why not come into New Hampshire, select one of those lovely spots, and have a camp of your own? No matter whether you are a young boy or an old man. It is easy; it is feasible; it is cheap; it is beneficial. It will prolong your days. For forty years Whittier, the poet, occupied a seat in this little church. THE QUAKER CHURCH OF AMESBURY. Beneath the elm trees shad'wy boughs, No loud voiced preacher beats the book But, gentle as the dews of night, Comes peace, and restful sense of calm. Here Whittier came; master of song, Without was war, and strife of men; The duties of the times and day Closed was his desk, his pen was still His morning sun heard freedom's bell, Stately and tall as Druid priest, The guidon must be set in line The marker at his post may fall Not so with him who firmly stood One day his battered shield could rest Oh, low-eaved church beneath the trees! But thirsty souls with pure intent Within thy walls is sacred air And glorious mem'ries hover still; |