An Evening on Lake Waterford. 



There is no need of an opiate to drive away the business 

 cares of the day, or coax the fickle goddess of sleep, but lulled 

 to dreamland by the solemn voices of night, and the low whis- 

 pering breeze in the branches overhead, we are asleep almost 

 as soon as we touch the pillow. 



"Across the years that have rolled around, 



And over the miles that lie between, 

 Memory flies back to those dear friends, 

 And our camp, in the woods so green." 



Hastings Tribune. 



I 174] 



