hat. I observed her lookin'
partikler admirin' at the handkercher, which was a handsome yellow spot,
so I up an' axed her to take a present of it, an' I settled it like an
apron in front, to show how iligant 'twould look; an' she was mighty
plased, an' curtseyed ever so often, an' Jackey himself gev me the trout
out of a big basket he brought in. The river's fairly alive wid 'em, I'm
tould: an' they risin' to a brown-bodied fly, Misther Arthur.'

'We'll have a look at them some spare day, Andy.'

'But what tuk my fancy intirely, was the iligant plan of bilin' 'em she
had. There war round stones warmin' in the fire, and she dropped 'em
into a pot of water till it was scalding hot; then in wid the fish,
addin' more stones to keep it singin'. It's an Indjin fashion, Jackey
told me; for they haven't nothin' to cook in but wooden pails; but I
thried it wid them trout yer atin', an' it answered beautiful.'

Andy bid fair to be no mean _chef-de-cuisine_, if his experiments always
resulted so favourably as in the present instance.

'An' the whole of it is, Misther Robert, that this Canada is a counthry
where the very best of atin' and dhrinkin' is to be had for the throuble
of pickin' it up. Don't I see the poorest cabins wid plenty of bacon
hangin' to the rafthers, an' the trees is full of birds that nobody can
summons you for catchin', and the sthrames is walkin' wid fish; I'm
tould there's sugar to be had by bilin' the juice of a bush; an' if you
scratch the ground, it'll give you bushels of praties an' whate for the
axin'. I wish I had all the neighbours out here, that's a fact; for it's
a grand poor man's counthry, an' there's too many of us at home, Misther
Robert; an' (as if this were the climax of wonders) I never see a beggar
since I left the Cove o' Cork!'

'All true, Andy, quite true,' said his master, with a little sigh. 'Hard
work will get a man anything here.'

'I must be goin',' said Nimrod, raising his lank figure on its big feet.
'But I guess that be for you;' and he tossed to Robert a soiled piece of
newspaper, wrapped round some square slight packet.

'Letters from home! Why, you unconscionable'--burst forth Arthur;
'loafing about here for these three hours, and never to produce them!'
But Nim had made off among the trees, grinning in every long tooth.

Ah! those letters from home! How sweet, yet how saddening! Mr. Holt went
off to chop alone. But first he found time to intercept Nimrod on the
road, a