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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

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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

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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.

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For forty years Whittier, the poet, occupied a seat in this little church.

THE QUAKER CHURCH OF AMESBURY.
By Dr. H. G. Leslie.

Beneath the elm trees shad'wy boughs,
Where slumbrous murmurs fill the air,
The gray-robed Quakers quiet meet
To spend their hour of silent prayer.

No loud voiced preacher beats the book
And tells his tale of what should be,
Or plans the way for sinful man
To meet the Prince of Galilee.

But, gentle as the dews of night,
The spirit feels a soothing balm,
And over all life's dreary cares

Comes peace, and restful sense of calm.

Here Whittier came; master of song,
To sit beside the healing pool,
And learn the lore of faith and love,
As children con their page at school.

Without was war, and strife of men;
Within was rest and peace of heart,
The oil of love, the inner light
To they who chose the better part.

The duties of the times and day
Called for this truce so freely given,
And better was the morrow's work
For this one hour at gate of heaven.

Closed was his desk, his pen was still
And rhythmic meters fell asleep
The words of scorn, the fierce reproach
That like a lash could cut and beat.

His morning sun heard freedom's bell,
Tolling with feeble strokes and slow,
But evening heard a stronger note
When full-armed manhood struck the blow.

Stately and tall as Druid priest,
He stood by fiery furnace blast
And ingots of his purest thought
Into the seething moult were cast.

The guidon must be set in line
Ere charging columns wheel and form;
The signal flag at top-mast head
To mark the coming of the storm.

The marker at his post may fall
Ere bugle sounds its cry to charge;
The soldier die in duty's line
Without one blow upon his targe.

Not so with him who firmly stood
And sent his challenge to the wrong;
He saw his arrow strike the mark
Sent with the feathered barb of song.

One day his battered shield could rest
On walls where war's red banners hung,
And all the world with glad acclaim
The pean song of victory sung.

Oh, low-eaved church beneath the trees!
Here sounds no organ's solemn strain;

But thirsty souls with pure intent
Smite not the rock of faith in vain.

Within thy walls is sacred air

And glorious mem'ries hover still;
The perfume of life's nobler self
And him who sleeps by Sandy Hill.

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