ross the foot-bridge that spans the stream,
with a bottle of milk from the nearest farmhouse. They are laughing
and teetering as they balance along the single plank. Now the table is
spread on the moss. How good the lunch tastes! Never were there such
pink-fleshed trout, such crisp and savoury slices of broiled bacon.
Douglas, (the beloved doll that the younger lad shamefacedly brings
out from the pocket of his jacket,) must certainly have some of it. And
after the lunch is finished, and the bird's portion has been scattered
on the moss, we creep carefully on our hands and knees to the edge
of the brook, and look over the bank at the big trout that is poising
himself in the amber water. We have tried a dozen times to catch him,
but never succeeded. The next time, perhaps--

Well, the fireplace is still standing. The butternut-tree spreads its
broad branches above the stream. The violets and the bishop's-caps and
the wild anemones are sprinkled over the banks. The yellow-throat
and the water-thrush and the vireos still sing the same tunes in the
thicket. And the elder of the two lads often comes back with me to that
pleasant place and shares my fisherman's luck beside the Swiftwater.

But the younger lad?

Ah, my little Barney, you have gone to follow a new stream,--clear as
crystal,--flowing through fields of wonderful flowers that never fade.
It is a strange river to Teddy and me; strange and very far away. Some
day we shall see it with you; and you will teach us the names of those
blossoms that do not wither. But till then, little Barney, the other
lad and I will follow the old stream that flows by the woodland
fireplace,--your altar.

Rue grows here. Yes, there is plenty of rue. But there is also
rosemary, that 's for remembrance! And close beside it I see a little
heart's-ease.

A SLUMBER SONG FOR THE FISHERMAN'S CHILD

Furl your sail, my little boatie;
Here 's the haven, still and deep,
Where the dreaming tides, in-streaming,
Up the channel creep.
See, the sunset breeze is dying;
Hark, the plover, landward flying,
Softly down the twilight crying;
Come to anchor, little boatie,
In the port of Sleep.

Far away, my little boatie,
Roaring waves are white with foam;
Ships are striving, onward driving,
Day and night they roam.