WHAT IT COSTS. 23 



beneath my window, and clash with rude inter- 

 ruptions upon my ear as I sit recalling the tran- 

 quil hours I have spent beneath the trees ! Wliat 

 restful slumber was mine ; and not less gently 

 than the close of day itself did it fall upon me, 

 as I stretched myself upon my bed of balsam- 

 boughs, with Eover at my side, not twenty feet 

 from the shore where the ripples were playing 

 coyly with the sand, and lulled by the low mono- 

 tone of the pines, whose branches were my only 

 shelter from the dew which gathered like gems 

 upon their spear-like stems, sank, as a falling star 

 fades from sight, into forgetfulness. And then the 

 waking ! The air fresh with the aroma of the 

 wilderness. The morning blowing its perfumed 

 breezes into your face. The drip, drip of the 

 odorous gum in the branches overhead, and the 

 colors of russet, of orange, and of gold streaking 

 the eastern sky. After three or four nights of 

 such slumber, the sleeper realizes the force and 

 beauty of the great poet's apostrophe, — 



" Sleep, that knits up the ravelled sleave of care, 

 The death of each day's life, sore labor's bath, 

 Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course. 

 Chief nourisher in life's feast." 



If every church would make up a purse, and 

 pack its worn and weary pastor off to the 

 North Woods for a four weeks' jaunt, in the 

 hot months of July and August, it would do a 



