sherman begins to think of home, and of the foolish, fond old rhymes
about those whom the moon sees far away, and the stars that have
the power to fulfil wishes--as if the celestial bodies knew or cared
anything about our small nerve-thrills which we call affection and
desires! But if there were Some One above the moon and stars who did
know and care, Some One who could see the places and the people that you
and I would give so much to see, Some One who could do for them all of
kindness that you and I fain would do, Some One able to keep our beloved
in perfect peace and watch over the little children sleeping in their
beds beyond the sea--what then? Why, then, in the evening hour, one
might have thoughts of home that would go across the ocean by way of
heaven, and be better than dreams, almost as good as prayers.

AT THE SIGN OF THE BALSAM BOUGH

"Come live with me, and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove
That valleys, groves, or hills, or field, Or woods and steepy mountains
yield.

"There we will rest our sleepy heads, And happy hearts, on balsam beds;
And every day go forth to fish In foamy streams for ouananiche."

Old Song with a new Ending.

It has been asserted, on high philosophical authority, that woman is a
problem. She is more; she is a cause of problems to others. This is not
a theoretical statement. It is a fact of experience.

Every year, when the sun passes the summer solstice, the

"Two souls with but a single thought,"

of whom I am so fortunate as to be one, are summoned by that portion of
our united mind which has at once the right of putting the question and
of casting the deciding vote, to answer this conundrum: How can we go
abroad without crossing the ocean, and abandon an interesting family of
children without getting completely beyond their reach, and escape from
the frying-pan of housekeeping without falling into the fire of the
summer hotel? This apparently insoluble problem we usually solve by
going to camp in Canada.

It is indeed a foreign air that breathes around us as we make the
harmless, friendly voyage from Point Levis to Quebec. The boy on the
ferry-boat, who cajoles us into buying a copy of Le Moniteur containing
last month's news, has the address of a true though diminutive
Frenchman. The landlord of the quiet little inn on the outskirts of the
town welcomes us with Gallic effusion as well-known guests, and rubs his
hands genially before us, whil