it is a vain thing. Few listen to the tale, and
none accept it. Does not Christopher North, reviewing the Salmonia of
Sir Humphry Davy, mock and jeer unfeignedly at the fish stories of
that most reputable writer? But, on the very next page, old Christopher
himself meanders on into a perilous narrative of the day when he caught
a whole cart-load of trout in a Highland loch. Incorrigible, happy
inconsistency! Slow to believe others, and full of sceptical inquiry,
fond man never doubts one thing--that somewhere in the world a tribe of
gentle readers will be discovered to whom his fish stories will appear
credible.

One of our days on the island was Sunday--a day of rest in a week of
idleness. We had a few books; for there are some in existence which will
stand the test of being brought into close contact with nature. Are
not John Burroughs' cheerful, kindly essays full of woodland truth and
companionship? Can you not carry a whole library of musical philosophy
in your pocket in Matthew Arnold's volume of selections from Wordsworth?
And could there be a better sermon for a Sabbath in the wilderness than
Mrs. Slosson's immortal story of Fishin' Jimmy?

But to be very frank about the matter, the camp is not stimulating to
the studious side of my mind. Charles Lamb, as usual, has said what I
feel: "I am not much a friend to out-of-doors reading. I cannot settle
my spirits to it."

There are blueberries growing abundantly among the rocks--huge clusters
of them, bloomy and luscious as the grapes of Eshcol. The blueberry is
nature's compensation for the ruin of forest fires. It grows best
where the woods have been burned away and the soil is too poor to raise
another crop of trees. Surely it is an innocent and harmless pleasure
to wander along the hillsides gathering these wild fruits, as the Master
and His disciples once walked through the fields and plucked the ears of
corn, never caring what the Pharisees thought of that new way of keeping
the Sabbath.

And here is a bed of moss beside a dashing rivulet, inviting us to rest
and be thankful. Hark! There is a white-throated sparrow, on a little
tree across the river, whistling his afternoon song

"In linked sweetness long drawn out."

Down in Maine they call him the Peabody-bird, because his notes sound
to them like Old man--Peabody, peabody, peabody. In New Brunswick the
Scotch settlers say that he sings Lost--lost--Kennedy, kennedy, kennedy.
But here in his northe