142 FLY-FISHING IN MAINE LAKES. 



science within, bright sunshine without, the sparkling 

 waters below, and God's pure sky above, one can 

 almost say with the sacred poet, 



" There can I bathe my weary soul 



In seas of heavenly rest, 

 And not a wave of trouble roll 

 Across my peaceful breast." 



We are now in sight of our landing, have enjoyed 

 every moment of our sail. Just as we pass from 

 the lake into the stream, Joe, who sees every thing, 

 stops paddling, says, " Sh ! look," and pointing with 

 his paddle we descry, at the top of a decaying tree 

 of immense size, " the proud bird of our country," 

 an American eagle. He sees us at about the same 

 moment, but does not like the cut of our jib, for he 

 stretches his wings, and soars away. 



We were glad to see him in repose, but his flight, 

 grand and majestic, was a more sublime sight. 



" A good omen, Joe," said I, as the canoe 

 touched the bank, and we prepared to disembark. 



" Yes, that means plenty salmon." 



Getting out of a canoe, and preserving your equi- 

 librium, is no easy matter to the uninitiated ; and 

 my advice to such is, don't hurry, take it coolly. 

 The madam hurried once, or made a misstep, and 

 when I turned to assist her she lay on her back by 



