112 FLY-FISHING IN MAINE LAKES. 



she pointed with stubborn finger to the fatal page, 

 could I but blush, and stand amazed ? 



Was it really a delightful fiction of my own, told 

 so often that I had come to believe it? I have 

 heard of such cases. In the language of the press, 

 " that powerful engine," et cetera, et cetera, the 

 tide of popular feeling was turning toward her, and 

 so rapidly that in the face of the proof I was power- 

 less ; when, in turning the pages of the yearly chron- 

 icler, I made a discovery. The artless ( ?) one had 

 privately pasted the covers of an almanac of that 

 year upon the fresher pages of the present one ; 

 thus seeking, by one bold stroke of generalship, to 

 banish once and forever all further aMusion to the 

 subject. 



One cannot sit on the piazza all night, any more 

 than one can eat all day. The last pipe must be 

 smoked, and the last look taken ; and so, as I 

 knocked the ashes from my bowl, we took one 

 good-night look at the grand old hills, and sought 

 the rest that was needed after the sight-seeing of 

 the day. 



" Tired nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep," 

 " Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleave of care," 



unknits rheumatic stitches, and the tangled meshes 

 of an active brain ; that many a conscience-stricken 



