CHAPTER XIII 

 THE ANGLER'S CAMP 



Where the silvery gleam of the rushing stream 

 Is so brightly seen o'er the rocks, dark green, 

 Where the white pink grows by the wild red rose 

 And the bluebird sings till the welkin rings; 



Where the red deer leaps and the panther creeps, 

 And the eagles scream over cliff and stream, 

 Where the lilies bow their heads of snow, 

 And the hemlocks tall throw a shade o'er all; 



Where the rolling surf laves the emerald turf, 

 Where the trout leaps high at the hovering fly, 

 Where the sportive fawn crops the soft green lawn, 

 And the crows' shrill cry bodes a tempest nigh 

 There is my home my wildwood home. 



Where no steps intrude in the dense dark wood, 

 Where no song is heard but of breeze and bird; 

 Where the world's foul scum can never come; 

 Where friends are so few that all are true 

 There is my home my wildwood home. 



EDWARD Z. C. JUDSON ("Ned Buntline") 

 (An Adirondack camp in ante-bellum days) 



Angling leads naturally to camping, because of 

 the manifest advantage of being domiciled most con- 

 veniently to the waters to be fished; and though con- 

 scious of the plethora of printed advice upon the sub- 

 ject of camp-life and equipment, we yet have the 



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