scoverer, took advantage of the charming morning to row
us all round the lake, to show us the pretty inlet with its beaver dam,
and help us gather the singular leaves of the pitcher plant, and the
beautiful, fragrant white water lilies riding at anchor in the lucent
stream.

We soon after took up our line of march for the Lower Pond, where we
found 'Uncle David,' with his sturdy wife and pretty, chubby children,
awaiting our arrival. Rowing rapidly down the lake, we took our last
Mount Marcy lunch beside the outlet, and, early in the afternoon,
returned to the Flats. The time devoted to the excursion was thus a
little over two and a half days. Going and returning we had driven six
miles, rowed four miles (exclusive of our visits to the Upper Pond), and
walked somewhat over twenty-one. There had been no fatigue and no
difficult climbing. Indeed, it would be no very serious matter to go one
day and return the next. And hence we advise all travellers in that
region with sound lungs, moderate strength, and any love for forest life
and magnificent scenery, to make the ascent. They will assuredly bring
home with them a host of pleasant memories, and many new and enchanting
pictures for that precious gallery already mentioned.

TIDINGS OF VICTORY.

When David's winning son rebelled,
They smote the traitor low,
And thought the monarch would rejoice
At riddance of his foe.

But in his chamber all alone
That kingly head was bowed,
And for the erring Absalom
His father wept aloud.

The ministers astonished stood
At such a burst of grief!
The traitor's death alone could bring
Their sovereign sure relief.

Back to their tents in sullen gloom
The faithful warriors flee;
While still he cried, 'My son! my son!
Would I had died for thee!'

My country's wilful erring sons,
Disloyal men, but brave,
Such tears of anguish now she sheds
Above the traitor's grave!

Amid the pealing notes of joy
For glorious victory won,
Is heard Columbia's piercing cry,
'O Absalom, my son!'

Ye faithful men whose crimson blood
In her defence is shed,
Upbraid her not if thus she weep
Above the guilty dead!

Her noble heart is true to you,
But generous as brave,
She mourns in royal grief apart
For those she could not save.

THE ESTHETICS OF THE ROOT OF ALL EVIL.

It behooves every man, toiling along this dusty roadway of li