which dots the ocean, and my mental eye rests lovingly among the hills which mirror themselves in dear old Grand Lake. I think of the gaps of weary miles that separate our once so closely united little party-one in England, one in Detroit, a third in St. John, and I in theHub.' Will these divergent lines of occupation ever converge again?-shall we ever again sing a quartette in unison with the sweet harmonies of birds, woods and waters? My prophetic soul answers yes; and I long for the time when the Cerberus of Pluto's domain will relax his jealous watch, and set me free to revisit these congenial scenes."

"Hallo! Fred, whose thunder have been stealing now?" said Charles. "Your flight of imagination has called up pleasant memories, and a host of favourite authors flit across my mental vision. Have you read Whittier's last poem 'Snow-bound?' If not, do so, and bless me for

the suggestion."

"Oh, yes," replied Fred, "I shall not soon forget the pleasure it afforded me. Do you know, my first thought on reading it was one of surprise that I had not written it myself: I have heard the same remark made by others, which I consider a sure test of its merits. It is so simple, so natural, and the ideas are just those which have occurred to thousands; but it needed the poetic mind of Whittier to weave them into true poetry.".

"How do you like Gerald Massey?" asked Harry. "I think him as rich in fancy as Alexander Smith's first blossoming into verse, as true to nature as Wordsworth, as musical at times as Tennyson, as heart-touching as Lamb, Hood, or Mrs. Browning."

"I have not found time to cut his leaves," said Fred; "but I shall remember your high praise of him, and shall lose no time in cultivating his acquaintance.'

"Have you read 'Guesses at Truth,' 'Friends in Council,' and 'Companions of my Solitude?'" asked Charles. "They comprise a trio I love full well. Ah me! what hosts of pleasant books lie closed, like oysters, on the shelves of my book-case. In a dreamy mood, I sometimes imagine them tumbling down, marching in from the library, and crying-Read me! ME! ME!' while with surprise I ask, 'Who are these?' Spenser, Chaucer, Gay, Suckling, Swift and Milton step forward, and rustle their leaves. 'Well, boys, you have all done some decent and some indecent things in your day and generation. Mr. Spenser and Mr. Chaucer may stay a few minutes and smoke a pipe of sympathy; but you last three chaps must march back to your shelves and clean yourselves.' (Deep groans from Suckling.) Well, Sucky, what's the matter?' 'Her feet (groan), little mice (groan), peeped in and out (groan), as if they feared the light (groan). Well, John, that was a pretty conceit; but the knowledge of so much virtue only makes your vice the blacker: so tramp with these other two literary blackguards!' 'Who's this? Milton-Milton, read a hundred times, and still fresh as ever!' One must like this old literary Saturn, despite his little prejudices." "

6

"What do you think of Keats?" asked Fred. "I think his sonnets among the best, if not the very best, in the language."

"Yes," said Harry, "I admire his masterly sonnets. If we except some of Shakspeare's best, it will be hard to find his superior in this most difficult species of composition. Speaking of sonnets recalls two of much merit, written by a friend of mine, a scholarly man, with a finely cultivated literary taste. I think them well worthy a place in some more lasting depository than the ephemeral pages of a newspaper, in which only they have yet seen the light. One was printed some time since in the Boston Advertiser, on the 71st birth-day of your great poet, Bryant. I think I can remember both :

"The mountains old, the hoary, solemn trees

And simple flowers, the unfettered wing

Of free wild bird, and the sweet crystal spring
Hid deep in woodland shades, mild summer breeze
And wintry winds, sweeping the pathless seas,

BRYANT, in thee a worshipper have known
Of Liberty; thine ear hath caught her tone,
Thine eye her form, in the grand harmonies
That fill thy Maker's works; her image bright
Is stamped indelibly upon thy heart;
Amid her votaries, bearing a noble part,
Long may'st thou wear, in the calm evening light
Of happy days, the fadeless wreath that fame

Has woven around thy pure and honoured name."'"

"It certainly has more merit than is usually found in ephemeral writing," said Charles, "and I am much pleased that your memory has retained it. I should much like a copy."

"I will write it with pleasure," said Harry, " and also the following, which is not inferior in merit, although the subject is more personal to the writer::

IN MEMORIAM.

C. A. D.

11th October, A. D., 1863.

"The cold, gray clouds have made the cheerless day

A fitting emblem of my darkened life,

Whose hopes were dimm'd when death took thee, my wife;
Quenching the love that beamed with purest ray,

And glowed with quickening warmth along the way
My weary feet have trod, with sorrows rife,
With thorny cares hedged up;-a constant strife
'Gainst sins that turn my faltering steps astray.
The rustling, withered leaves upon thy grave
Are slowly falling, as the fitful breeze
Sighs sadly through the melancholy trees,
Whose blackening branches all reluctant wave,
Mourning the summer gone: yet the green sod,
Smiling, reflects thy steadfast trust in God."

"Is your friend an angler?" asked Mr. R. "I should like to meet him amid the scenes he appears to love and appreciate.”

"No, sir," replied Harry, "his tastes are more of a scholarly and literary cast. Books are his pet hobby, as angling is mine; but he finds time to steal from the city to the fresh beauties of the country, as well as I do to keep up my acquaintance with current literature. We often meet, exchange ideas, and pass many a pleasant hour, notwithstanding the superiority of his attainments."

"Have you ever heard," asked Fred, "the anecdote of Victor Hugo and the comedian? It contains a retort which Charles would call the 'retort cutting.' This is the pith of it:--The comedian requested Hugo to unite with him in the production of a comedy for the Theatre Française. Hugo replied majestically,- No, sir; nature permits not the horse and the ass to be yoked together.' The comedian assented to the truth of the remark, but said that if the horse was willing to submit to the indignity, he did not see why the ass should object.'

The night was now far advanced, and as preparations had to be made in the morning for the departure of our friends, which necessitated rising at an early hour, we all retired to rest.

Several hours were occupied next morning in packing up; and by nine o'clock our friends, having partaken of breakfast-their last meal in camp, —were ready for the walk to the place of embarkation at the head of Big Lake. The Indians had transported the luggage and canoes over the portage, and we all set out to accompany our friends, and see them fairly started on their homeward journey.

The prevailing feeling was one of regret at the severance of the ties that intimate acquaintance had made very pleasant.. But to the inevitable all must bow: so a cordial farewell, a heartfelt grasp of the hand ended our intercourse, and left Harry, Jim and Lt. G. to find new sources of interest during the few remaining days of our stay.

The departure of our companions, and the previous break-up of the several parties present at the time of our arrival, left the place quite deserted; but this gave increased facilities for sport. After prolonging our stay for three days longer, during which we had some splendid fishing, we, too, turned our faces homeward, loth to resume the prosaic duties of life.

Harry's confident anticipations of restored energy were fully realized; and the vigour with which he handled the paddle on the downward trip was very different from the feebleness of his upward efforts.

We reached the Indian village at Point Pleasant about 11 o'clock, and halted for half an hour to stroll through the place, and observe the habits of these aborigines in their attempts to adopt the customs of civilized life. It seems strange that the red man, though not destitute of the qualities that would enable him to attain a high state of civilization, has ever manifested a settled repugnance to its restraints. The law of progress does not seem to include the Indian: he appears to be the exception that proves the rule. The Indians at Point Pleasant make but little progress, nor could we learn that their numbers increased. With every facility for surrounding themselves with the comforts of life, they appear to be content with their half-civilized state, and to eke out a hard livelihood by partial tillage of patches of their reserve, trapping the musquash, fashioning baskets and moccasins, and hiring their canoes and services to the anglers frequenting the lakes. They have a small chapel in which Divine Service, according to the Roman Catholic ritual, is performed every fortnight. Some of them can read, and a few can write their names; but the majority of them, both male and female, are as ignorant as their forefathers of all the

arts of civilization. It would seem that, having acted their part on the world's stage, the curtain of oblivion will fall on their race.

With a feeling of regret at their apparent destiny, we resumed our canoes, and reached Princeton in time for the mid-day train to Calais, where evening found us, surrounded by sights and sounds very different from those we left behind us on the pleasant banks of Grand Lake stream. With our angler's clothing, we laid aside our woodsman's habits, and again resumed the manners of city life at the hospitable table of Dr. W****r, a keen angler, to whom we are indebted for many courtesies.

In bidding farewell to the St. Croix and its splendid chains of lakes, the writer cannot refrain from expressing his regret that this river, once famous as a splendid and well-stocked salmon stream, has been ruined by the culpable neglect of mill-owners to provide proper fishways in their dams. Every Spring a small remnant-theforlorn hope' of the numerous army that once resorted to it-ascend to the dam at Milltown, and make abortive efforts to pass that obstruction. Year by year these are becoming fewer, and if immediate steps be not taken to provide a passage, all hope of restoring the river fishery will be lost, except by re-stocking. This river needs nothing but sufficient fish-ways, and a rigid enforcement of the fishery regulations, to become again the finest river in the State; and while these are being enforced, some steps should also be taken to prevent the annihilation of the fish that now abound in Grand Lake and the lakes above it. American sportsmen do not properly appreciate the magnificent sport afforded by this rarely game fish, and the time is fast approaching when they will bitterly regret their want of foresight in not protecting them. Field sports and angling are now, when both woods and waters are nearly depopulated, beginning to be enjoyed and appreciated by Americans; who are fast acquiring, not only a taste for these healthy and exciting sports, but knowledge and skill in their pursuit, and the rational and invigorating pastimes of field and flood, of moor and stream, are attracting increased attention. Where one man went angling twenty years ago, hundreds now look forward with eagerness to the time when, for a brief period at least, the rod and gun will take the place of the pen and hammer-when the pleasures of former seasons will be renewed amid the beautiful scenes of river, lake and forest. It therefore behoves American sportsmen to take some vigorous steps now, in order to prevent the total annihilation of fin and feather, or else the next generation will curse the short-sighted folly of their fathers, and ten times the outlay that would now effectually preserve the lakes and streams will be necessary to re-stock them.

The writer intended to offer some suggestions as to the means by which this could be effectually done, and had written out his ideas on the subject; but, having learned that the Legislature of Maine has at length moved in the matter, and appointed commissioners to examine aud report upon the River Fisheries of the State, under the direction of a gentleman in every way qualified for the duty, and one whose heart is in the work for its own sake, and to whom it will be a labour of love, he fears his remarks may be premature, and he refrains, feel

ing well assured the duty is in competent hands, and that to its performance will be brought not only a sound practical knowledge of the subject, but also a full appreciation of its vast importance.

SANS TOI.

From Essais Poetiques of the French Canadian poet, Lemay.

BY MARY A. McIVER, Ottawa.

Sweet is the whisp'ring zephyr
During the silent eve-
Dear are the solemn shadows

Of groves to hearts that grieve;
But neither balmy south-wind,
Nor dreamy woods for me;
For these lose all their sweetness,
My love, when wanting thee.
Pleasant the billow's murmur
When gliding o'er the rocks,
Bright the lone gem that glitters
Amid night's ample locks;
But neither perfumed blossoms,
Nor wave nor star for me;
For these lose all their sweetness,
My love, when wanting thee.

Fair is the unblown flower,

Whose leaves morn's tears have stirr'd

Sweet is the sun's arising,

The voice of singing bird;

Nor birds 'mong dew-drops scatter'd,

Nor song of bird for me;

For these lose all their sweetness,

My love, when wanting thee.

IN MEMORY.

By CARROLL RYAN, Ottawa.

Oh! cease those strains of mirth to-night
The song I deemed divine

Falls bitterly upon my heart,

As poison into wine;

For ne'er again one gentle voice,
Beloved in our throng,

Will make the weary heart rejoice
In sweet and merry song.

No more-alas! no more for him
Bright eyes will overflow,

When rise the shadows, faint and dim,

From out the long ago.

Then let us pledge a solemn toast,

For tears are in it shed,

Nor rudely wake his happy ghost

"The mem'ry of the dead!"