148 FLY-FISHING IN MAINE LAKES. 



And now what wonder that we feel the blood 

 rush tingling through our veins, as we stand on the 

 brow of Missionary Hill this glorious June morning, 

 and drink in the invigorating draughts of a freshly 

 rising western breeze ? 



The lake feels its influence ; and at our feet its 

 rippling waves dance with delight, and mingle their 

 low murmur with the rustling leaves. 



Up comes the sun, dispelling the mists, driving 

 the shadows far back upon the hills. 



We hail the new-born day : we rejoice in the 

 glad sunlight ; the clear atmosphere makes us light 

 of heart ; we stretch out our arms to embrace dear 

 old mother Nature, and we exult in our freedom. 



We shout, and the wooded hills send back their 

 echoes ; we sing (the madam), and the warblers of 

 the wood assist in the chorus ; we snuff the odor of 

 the hemlock and the pine : and, oh ! human na- 

 ture, something else. 



" Bacon." 



Bob Southey's "Jacob" would ne'er "turned up 

 his nose in scornful curve at yonder pig,'' had he 

 breakfasted on " Joseph's " bacon. 



With each foot firmly planted on its parent soil, 

 Joe stands a statue ; the frying-pan upon the stove 

 before him, the bacon sizzling and gurgling in its 

 fatty bed. An egg in his hand is ready to be brok- 



