CHAPTEK XYI. 



A PLEASANT MOKNING THE JUDGE 5 S FIKST SALMON. 



'Neath cloistered boughs each floral bell that swingeth, 



And tolls its perfume on the passing air, 

 Makes Sabbath in the field, and ever ringeth 

 A call to prayer. 



[Horace Smith, 



Give me mine angle. We'll to the river ; there, 



My music playing afar off, I will betray 



Tawny finn'd fishes ; my bended hook shall pierce 



Their slimy jaws ; and as I draw them up, 



I'll think them every one an Antony, 



And say, " Ah, ha ! you're caught." 



[Shakspeare. 



UK first morning in camp was 

 "cloudless and serene. The "cal- 

 lar mountain air" was pure and 

 bracing. The gentle western 

 breeze came down from the hills 

 freighted with the perfume of a 

 million flowers and the melody 

 of a thousand songsters, calling 

 up the beautiful apostrophe of 

 the psalmist : " Praise waiteth 

 for Thee, O God, in Zion ; I will lift up mine eyes 

 unto the hills from whence cometh my help ; my 

 help cometh from the Lord, which made heaven 

 and earth." The leaves, besprinkled with "the 



