292 I GO A -FISHING. 



tall trunk was lit like a great tree of gold. The squirrels 

 were out for a last run before night, and occasionally 

 along the road a chipmunk was sitting up wiping his 

 whiskers with his forepaws, undisturbed by our approach, 

 nor moving as we passed within a few feet of him. The 

 voices of the birds filled the woods. I don't know what 

 bird it is, but there is one who utters only one long, clear, 

 musical whistle, broken by one or two pauses. So we 



drove on through the forest, and and myself talked 



of drives we took together the year previous in Switzer- 

 land and Germany, and how together we saw the fires of 

 hell surrounding the old cathedral of Strasbourg, and 

 awoke in the night to hear the thunder of the bombard- 

 ment ; and so at last we came out of the woods at Echo 

 Lake, and John, the Indian, stopped us to tell me of a 

 large trout that had been breaking near the boat-house, 

 as they generally do of a Sunday, and then we drove on to 

 the house, and were suddenly in the crowd of fashion and 

 splendor at the Profile. 



That was a Sunday worth remembering, according to 

 my notion. Take my advice and let the trout alone on a 

 Sunday, and become fishers of thought, drawing bright 

 and good things out of the depths of memory. They will 

 rise to your cast with great freedom, and take hold strong- 

 ly, and it is a pleasure to land them, and once secured 

 they become an enjoyable possession forever. 



I venture another bit of advice, based on some experi- 

 ence as angler and traveler. I commend this rule for the 

 Sunday : To worship God with his people, if there be ac- 

 cessible to you any where a church calling itself Chris- 

 tian, of whatever denomination. It is a good plan, and 

 will be found remunerative. I have knelt on many a 

 Sunday morning with Greeks, with Copts, with Armenians, 



