A SUMMER AFTERNOON 113 
forth, so the smooth and stainless water sum- 
mons us, “ Put your hand upon the oar,” says 
Charon, in the old play, to Bacchus, “and you 
shall hear the sweetest songs.” The doors of 
the boathouse swing softly open, and the slen- 
der wherry, like a water-snake, steals silently in 
the wake of the dispersing clouds. 
The woods are hazy, as if the warm sun- 
beams had melted in among the interstices of 
the foliage and spread a soft film throughout 
the whole. The sky seems to reflect the water, 
and the water the sky; both are roseate with 
color, both are darkened with clouds, and be- 
tween them both, as the boat recedes, the float- 
ing bridge hangs suspended, with its motionless 
fishermen and its moving team. The wooded 
islands are poised upon the lake, each belted 
with a paler tint of softer wave. The air seems 
fine and palpitating ; the drop of an oar in a 
distant rowlock, the sound of a hammer on a 
dismantled boat, pass into some region of mist 
and shadows, and form a metronome for deli- 
cious dreams. 
Every summer I launch my boat to seek 
some realm of enchantment beyond all the 
sordidness and sorrow of earth, and never yet 
did I fail to ripple, with my prow at least, the 
outskirts of those magic waters. What spell 
has fame or wealth to enrich this midday bless- 
