. We emerged from the birchen grove upon the river,
below a brilliant cascading rapid. The water came flashing gloriously
forward, a far other element than the tame, flat stuff we had drifted
slowly over all the dullish hours. Water on the go is nobler than water
on the stand; recklessness may be as fatal as stagnation, but it is more
heroic.

Presently, over the edge, where the foam and spray were springing up
into sunshine, our canoe suddenly appeared, and had hardly appeared,
when, as if by one leap, it had passed the rapid, and was gliding in the
stiller current at our feet. One of the muskrateers had relieved Cancut
of his head-piece, and shot the lower rush of water. We again embarked,
and, guided by the trappers in their own canoe, paddled out upon Lake
Pepogenus.

LOUIS LEBEAU'S CONVERSION.

Yesterday, while I moved with the languid crowd on the Riva,
Musing with idle eyes on the wide lagoons and the islands,
And on the dim-seen seaward glimmering sails in the distance,
Where the azure haze, like a vision of Indian-Summer,
Haunted the dreamy sky of the soft Venetian December,--
While I moved unwilled in the mellow warmth of the weather,
Breathing air that was full of Old-World sadness and beauty,
Into my thought came this story of free, wild life in Ohio,
When the land was new, and yet by the Beautiful River
Dwelt the pioneers and Indian hunters and boatmen.

Pealed from the campanile, responding from island to island,
Bells of that ancient faith whose incense and solemn devotions
Rise from a hundred shrines in the broken heart of the city;
But in my reverie heard I only the passionate voices
Of the people that sang in the virgin heart of the forest.
Autumn was in the land, and the trees were golden and crimson,
And from the luminous boughs of the over-elms and the maples
Tender and beautiful fell the light in the worshippers' faces,
Softer than lights that stream through the saints on the windows of
churches,
While the balsamy breath of the hemlocks and pines by the river
Stole on the winds through the woodland aisles like the breath of a
censer.
Loud the people sang old camp-meeting anthems that quaver
Quaintly yet from lips forgetful of lips that have kissed them:
Loud they sang the songs of the Sacrifice and Atonement,
And of the end of the world, and the infinite terrors of Judgment;
Songs of ineffable sorrow, and wailing compassion