72 THE LOST ONE. 



racoon, the greater part of which he actually devoured at one meal. With 

 more comfortable feelings, he then resumed his wanderings — his journey 

 I cannot say, — for although in the possession of all his faculties, and in 

 broad dayhght, he was worse off than a lame man groping his way in the 

 dark out of a dungeon, of which he knew not where the door stood. 



Days, one after another, passed, — nay, weeks in succession. He fed 

 now on cabbage-trees, then on frogs and snakes. All that fell in his way 

 was welcome and savoury. Yet he became daily more emaciated, until 

 at length he could scarcely crawl. Forty days had elapsed, by his own 

 reckoning, when he at last reached the banks of the river. His clothes in 

 tatters, his once bright axe dimmed with rust, his face begrimmed with 

 beard, his hair matted, and his feeble frame little better than a skeleton 

 covered with parchment, there he laid himself down to die. Amid the 

 perturbed dreams of his fevered fancy, he thought he heard the noise of 

 oars far away on the silent river. He listened, but the sounds died away 

 on his ear. It was indeed a dream, the last glimmer of expiring hope, 

 and now the light of hfe was about to be quenched for ever. But again, 

 the sound of oars awoke him from his lethargy. He listened so eagerly, 

 that the hum of a fly could not have escaped his ear. They were indeed 

 the measured beats of oars, and now, joy to the forlorn soul ! the sound 

 of human voices thrilled to his heart, and awoke the tumultuous pulses 

 of returning hope. On his knees did the eye of God see that poor man 

 by the broad still stream that ghttered in the sunbeams, and human eyes 

 soon saw him too, for round that headland covered with tangled |)rush- 

 wood boldly advances the little boat, propelled by its lusty rowers. The 

 Lost One raises his feeble voice on high ; — it was a loud shrill scream of 

 joy and fear. The rowers pause, and look around. Another, but feebler 

 scream, and they observe him. It comes, — his heart flutters, his sight is 

 dimmed, his brain reels, he gasps for breath. It comes, — it has run upon 

 the beach, and the Lost One is found. 



This is no tale of fiction, but the relation of an actual occurrence, 

 which might be embellished, no doubt, but which is better in the plain 

 garb of truth. The notes by which I recorded it were written, in the 

 cabin of the once lost live-oaker, about four years after the painful inci.- 

 dent occurred. His amiable wife, and loving children, were present at 

 the recital, and never shall I forget the tears that flowed from them as 

 they listened to it, albeit it had long been more familiar to them than a 



