t nightfall: is there not a little lifting and breaking
of the clouds in the west, a little shifting of the wind toward a
better quarter? You go to bed with cheerful hopes. A dozen times in the
darkness you are half awake, and listening drowsily to the sounds of the
storm. Are they waxing or waning? Is that louder pattering a new burst
of rain, or is it only the plumping of the big drops as they are shaken
from the trees? See, the dawn has come, and the gray light glimmers
through the canvas. In a little while you will know your fate.

Look! There is a patch of bright yellow radiance on the peak of the
tent. The shadow of a leaf dances over it. The sun must be shining. Good
luck! and up with you, for it is a glorious morning.

The woods are glistening as fresh and fair as if they had been
new-created overnight. The water sparkles, and tiny waves are dancing
and splashing all along the shore. Scarlet berries of the mountain-ash
hang around the lake. A pair of kingfishers dart back and forth across
the bay, in flashes of living blue. A black eagle swings silently around
his circle, far up in the cloudless sky. The air is full of pleasant
sounds, but there is no noise. The world is full of joyful life, but
there is no crowd and no confusion. There is no factory chimney to
darken the day with its smoke, no trolley-car to split the silence with
its shriek and smite the indignant ear with the clanging of its impudent
bell. No lumberman's axe has robbed the encircling forests of their
glory of great trees. No fires have swept over the hills and left behind
them the desolation of a bristly landscape. All is fresh and sweet, calm
and clear and bright.

'Twas rather a rude jest of Nature, that tempest of yesterday. But
if you have taken it in good part, you are all the more ready for her
caressing mood to-day. And now you must be off to get your dinner--not
to order it at a shop, but to look for it in the woods and waters. You
are ready to do your best with rod or gun. You will use all the skill
you have as hunter or fisherman. But what you shall find, and
whether you shall subsist on bacon and biscuit, or feast on trout and
partridges, is, after all, a matter of luck.

I profess that it appears to me not only pleasant, but also salutary, to
be in this condition. It brings us home to the plain realities of life;
it teaches us that a man ought to work before he eats; it reminds us
that, after he has done all he can, he must sti