JOYS OP WADING. 83 



lightfully cool the water as it rose and laved 

 my ankles. How my feet took hold of the slip- 

 pery rocks and clung thereto. How soft seemed 

 the sand and turf at the points of entrance and 

 exit. Prison bound in woollen and leather for 

 years at a time, our feet rejoice when for a 

 brief respite we turn them out to grass rejoice 

 as though they were living, breathing entities 

 with souls of their own. Soles indeed they al- 

 ways have, but they are hardened. It is the 

 muscle, the soft inner portion, which is pleased 

 with its new-born freedom. 



While preparing supper I heard a voice and 

 saw before me the old farmer with a bucket. 

 "It is the rest of your turtle stew/' he said; 

 "the old woman warmed it up and sent it over 

 for your supper." Thus do these kind-hearted 

 country folk think of the welfare of whoever 

 for a short time bides near them. 



Supper over I threw myself down upon the 

 soft sward and watched the moon's shadows 

 lengthen; waited and hearkened for sound of 

 bird or mammal which never came to ear. Only 

 the blood tingling through the capillaries of my 

 brain heard I. The blanket of the night fell 

 slowly, the twilight lingering long in the eve 

 of these June days. Alone in the wilderness 

 seemed I, yet not alone, for the spirit of the 

 great mother, on whose bosom I reclined, was 

 with me, and with it present was I content. 



