I3& MY SUMMER IN A GARDEN 



on the bank of the crystal, rocky stream, at the 

 foot of high and slender falls, which poured into 

 a broad amber basin. Out of this basin we had 

 just taken trout enough for our supper, which 

 had been killed, and roasted over the fire on 

 sharp sticks, and eaten before they had an op- 

 portunity to feel the chill of this deceitful world. 

 We were lying under the hut of spruce-bark, on 

 fragrant hemlock-boughs, talking, after supper. 

 In front of us was a huge fire of birch-logs ; 

 and over it we could see the top of the falls 

 glistening in the moonlight: ; and the roar of the 

 falls, and the brawling of the stream near us, 

 filled all the ancient woods. It was a scene 

 upon which one would think no thought of sin 

 could enter. We were talking with old Phelps, 

 the guide. Old Phelps is at once guide, phi- 

 losopher, and friend. He knows the woods and 

 streams and mountains, and their savage inhabi- 

 tants, as well as we know all our rich relations. 



