THE NORTHERN LAKES. 



Insect hordes are busy, toiling, 



Squirrels frisk and gambol through 

 Time-worn monarchs of the forest; 



Falling leaves fling thoughts to you. 



From the earth fresh sweets arising 



Fill the senses with delight, 

 While the ever moving shadows 



Constant change, from dark to light. 



Is there one among the tens of thousands who travel for health 

 and pleasure, who loves not the forest primeval? To hear the mel- 

 ody of sounds the brooklet rippling among the shadows, the 

 rustling leaves, wind tossed and falling through swaying branches, 

 the languid and silvery notes of happy songsters and to breathe 

 the sweet odors exhaled by nature's most precious gift to the con- 

 tented mind the monarchs of the wood-land. Is it not quite 

 enough, apart from any considerations of sport, game and luxurious 

 menu, to live surrounded by the very essence of content and recre- 

 ation? Yes, indeed! We hear the echo, and in our imagination, 

 and with our eyes wide open we see before us, as if reading from a 

 great book, where every page is new, original and embellished with 

 illuminated letters, and wonderful illustrations, the story of life. A 

 beautiful stream of clearly drawn sketches and ever fresh ideas, 

 flowing on like the currents in the air or a river. 



For many miles along these crystal streams the foliage is so denae 

 overhanging the water and lapping, as almost to prevent the pass- 

 age of a row-boat under the lowering branches. Then when the 

 sun is beaming brightly, covering the tree tops as with a sheet of 

 molten silver, which is caught by the rustling leaves and set danc- 

 ing to the music they themselves produce, one can scarcely believe 

 his own senses. 



Beyond we see a deer standing motionless, knee-deep in the cool 

 crystal water, seemingly quite unconcerned about our presence. 

 Hundreds of fish, large and small, are leaping out of the current 

 and falling back again, their shining bodies coquettishly bent as if 

 they were making jest of the approach of civilization. Sometimes 

 our boat glides listlessly into a pleasant inlet where the trees on the 

 shore gracefully bend in the breeze and kiss each other, then rising 

 majestically, as if gathering courage, they bow and kiss once 

 more. The foliage at times is mirrored so completely in the water 



