A SONG ON THE WATER. 127 



tance down the lake, and started off to procure it, that 

 we might take an early start in the morning, on a 

 voyage down the Saranac. I sat upon a boulder on 

 the margin of the lake. The sun had gone down, 

 and the grayness of twilight was fast settling upon all 

 things ; the stars stole out, one after another, and were 

 rc-lected from away down in the bosom of the waters. 

 The evening was perfectly calm. The lake lay like a 

 mirror before me. The leaves stood still on the trees, 

 and all nature seemed sinking into stillness and re- 

 pose. Anon, the voice of my guide rung out over 

 the waters in simple song, as he paddled his light 

 canoe homeward. How it might have sounded in a 

 concert hall, I will not pretend to say, but it floated 

 full, and clear, and musical over the waters that night, 

 and to me it seemed full of sweetness and harmony. 

 I thought if the Swedish Nightingale had been out 

 there, on that silent lake that calm evening, giving to 

 the still air the sweet songs of her northern home, her 

 voice would have entranced the listener, like the 

 seraphs' hymns, as they minister in the choirs of 

 heaven. How I should love to hear it swelling over 

 the still waters of the Saranac, and dying away in far- 

 off echoes along its woody shores. But those old for 



