188 WOODLAND IDYLS. 



excuse for a local resort where many people 

 flock these summer days to fish and otherwise 

 amuse themselves. Needless to say that the only 

 mineral in the water is a carbonate of iron, 

 so that "chalybeate" rather than "sulphur" 

 should the springs be called. 



Reaching camp at five o'clock, we soon had 

 supper ready, then went up to the deep pool to 

 try our luck for catfish. Long I sat and waited, 

 then a nibble, a swallow, a jerk, a lunge and out 

 came a pound and a half bull head, squirming 

 and writhing to the muddy bank. Soon a small- 

 er one he had to keep him company, but no 

 others nibbled. Back in the darkness we felt 

 our way to camp. There M. and E. left me 

 alone to review in memory a day well spent 

 along the valley and the breaks of old Raccoon. 



Monday, July 10. The day was opened by a 

 pair of wood thrushes striving to outdo them- 

 selves in calls and counter challenges. Breakfast 

 over, I seek the shade of oak tree, there to learn 

 what, if anything, the genii have to offer. 



' ' And out of my soul a thought is born. ' ' Let 

 that be my text this morn. A true author is a 

 creator. In his brain cells, womb of his soul, 

 something is created out of nothing. There is 

 begotten, not out of the fabric or remnants of 

 other thoughts, but of itself, independent of all 

 things, an idea. It may spring into life, the 



