A DINNER SCENE. 123 



on the leaves, and placing our bark dishes across 

 our legs, with a sharp stick in one hand for a fork, 

 and our pocket knives in the other,* commenced 

 our repast. I have dined in palaces, hotels, and 

 amid ancient ruins, but never so right royally before. 

 We were kings here, with our rifles by our side, and 

 no one to dispute our sway ; and then such a palace 

 of countless columns encompassing us, while the 

 gentle murmur of the tiny wave as it laid its cheek 

 on the smooth pebbles below, made harmony with the 

 refreshing breeze that rustled in the tree tops and 

 lifted the ashes of our already smouldering camp fire. 

 I thought last winter, at the Carlton House, that the 

 venison made a dish that might please a gourmet, but 

 it was tasteless, savorless, compared to this venison, 

 cat off from the freshly killed carcass, and roasted in 

 the open forest. A clear stream near by furnished us 

 with a richer beverage than wine ; while the fresh air, 

 and gleaming lake, and sweet islands sleeping on its 

 bosom, gave to the spirits a healthier excitement than 

 society. 



After the repast was finished, we stretched our- 

 selves along the ground and smoked our cigars, and 

 talked awhile of trout and deer and bears and 



