st have made some
inquiries and reflections during the day, for that night he paid a visit
to our camp. After telling bear stories and fish stories for an hour or
two by the fire, he rose to depart, and tapping his forefinger solemnly
upon my shoulder, delivered himself as follows:--

"You can say a proud thing when you go home, M'sieu'--that you have
beaten the old Castonnier. There are not many fishermen who can say
that. But," he added, with confidential emphasis, "c'etait votre sacre
p'tit poisson qui a fait cela."

That was a touch of human nature, my rusty old guardian, more welcome
to me than all the morning's catch. Is there not always a "confounded
little minnow" responsible for our failures? Did you ever see a
school-boy tumble on the ice without stooping immediately to re-buckle
the strap of his skates? And would not Ignotus have painted a
masterpiece if he could have found good brushes and a proper canvas?
Life's shortcomings would be bitter indeed if we could not find excuses
for them outside of ourselves. And as for life's successes--well, it is
certainly wholesome to remember how many of them are due to a fortunate
position and the proper tools.

Our tent was on the border of a coppice of young trees. It was pleasant
to be awakened by a convocation of birds at sunrise, and to watch the
shadows of the leaves dance out upon our translucent roof of canvas.

All the birds in the bush are early, but there are so many of them that
it is difficult to believe that every one can be rewarded with a worm.
Here in Canada those little people of the air who appear as transient
guests of spring and autumn in the Middle States, are in their summer
home and breeding-place. Warblers, named for the magnolia and the
myrtle, chestnut-sided, bay-breasted, blue-backed, and black-throated,
flutter and creep along the branches with simple lisping music.
Kinglets, ruby-crowned and golden-crowned, tiny, brilliant sparks of
life, twitter among the trees, breaking occasionally into clearer,
sweeter songs. Companies of redpolls and crossbills pass chirping
through the thickets, busily seeking their food. The fearless, familiar
chickadee repeats his name merrily, while he leads his family to explore
every nook and cranny of the wood. Cedar wax-wings, sociable wanderers,
arrive in numerous flocks. The Canadians call them "recollets," because
they wear a brown crest of the same colour as the hoods of the monks who
came with the first