k tiny leaves of the
creeping snow-berry were all sprinkled over with delicate drops of spicy
foam. There were few belated raspberries, and, if we chose to go out
into the burnt ground, we could find blueberries in plenty.

But there was still bloom enough to give that festal air without which
the most abundant feast seems coarse and vulgar. The pale gold of the
loosestrife had faded, but the deeper yellow of the goldenrod had begun
to take its place. The blue banners of the fleur-de-lis had vanished
from beside the springs, but the purple of the asters was appearing.
Closed gentians kept their secret inviolate, and bluebells trembled
above the rocks. The quaint pinkish-white flowers of the turtle-head
showed in wet places, and instead of the lilac racemes of the
purple-fringed orchis, which had disappeared with midsummer, we found
now the slender braided spikes of the lady's-tresses, latest and
lowliest of the orchids, pale and pure as nuns of the forest, and
exhaling a celestial fragrance. There is a secret pleasure in finding
these delicate flowers in the rough heart of the wilderness. It is
like discovering the veins of poetry in the character of a guide or
a lumberman. And to be able to call the plants by name makes them a
hundredfold more sweet and intimate. Naming things is one of the oldest
and simplest of human pastimes. Children play at it with their dolls and
toy animals. In fact, it was the first game ever played on earth, for
the Creator who planted the garden eastward in Eden knew well what
would please the childish heart of man, when He brought all the new-made
creatures to Adam, "to see what he would call them."

Our rustic bouquet graced the table under the white-birches, while we
sat by the fire and watched our four men at the work of the camp--Joseph
and Raoul chopping wood in the distance; Francois slicing juicy
rashers from the flitch of bacon; and Ferdinand, the chef, heating the
frying-pan in preparation for supper.

"Have you ever thought," said Greygown, in a contented tone of voice,
"that this is the only period of our existence when we attain to the
luxury of a French cook?"

"And one with the grand manner, too," I replied, "for he never fails to
ask what it is that madame desires to eat to-day, as if the larder of
Lucullus were at his disposal, though he knows well enough that the only
choice lies between broiled fish and fried fish, or bacon with eggs
and a rice omelet. But I like the fi