113 THE ST. REGIS AND SARANACS. 



come to realize that you may forthwith, if you will, have a 

 chat with j^our wife aud babies at home. 



Somethinii' else comes to you.— knowledge of good aud 

 evil — as to j^our attire. After weeks of life out of the reach 

 of dail}" mails and the instantaneous telegram, you have 

 become as unconscious of your outer covering as a tortoise 

 is of his shell. It fit'^ and protects you, and what more is to 

 be desired? The first five minutes over, at Paul Smith's, 

 and in the i^rivacy of your room, you dive into j'our knap- 

 sack for the fig-leaves. Alas, you have become conscious ; 

 your freedom is gone; you have in elfect come back to 

 town; and Tom. Dick and Harry salute you on the street, 

 and you know that they know whether you are " dressed" 

 or not. For the hour, the genuine, careless joy of the 

 woodsman in you is dead. 



When evening comes at Paul Smith's, the long parlor is 

 l)ri]liantly lighted. At the piano is seated a lady in elegant 

 summer costume, and at her masterful touch the rich tones 

 rise and swell and sink and die away in music. B}^ her 

 side, turning the sheets, as she plays, stand men of fault- 

 less attire and foreign speech. Ladies and gentlemen walk 

 up and down the room, and pretty children, fastidiously 

 dressed, romp and frolic with the irrepressible freedom of 

 childhood. 



There are social games, sober family gatherings and flir- 

 tations in the nooks and corners, and in the office letter- 

 wi'iting and newspaper reading. Tlie fisheniKMi and hunt- 

 ers who came in, from ever}' direction, before tea, in their 

 fancy hunting costumes reappear in Scotch and broadcloth 



