A SUMMER AFTERNOON 129 
toend. The profaning axe may sometimes come 
near the margin, and one may hear the whet- 
ting of the scythe ; but no cultivated land abuts 
upon the main lake, though beyond the narrow 
woods there are here and there glimpses of rye- 
fields, that wave like rolling mist. Graceful 
islands rise from the quiet waters, — Grape 
Island, Grass Island, Sharp Pine Island, and 
the rest, baptized with simple names by de- 
parted generations of farmers, — all wooded 
and bushy, and trailing with festoonery of vines. 
Here and there the banks are indented, and one 
may pass beneath drooping chestnut-leaves and 
among alder branches into some secret sanctuary 
of stillness. The emerald edges of these silent 
tarns are starred with dandelions which have 
strayed here, one scarce knows how, from their 
foreign home; the buck-bean perchance grows 
in the water, or the Rhodora fixes here one of 
its shy camping-places, or there are whole skies 
of lupine on the sloping banks ;— the catbird 
builds its nest beside us, the yellow-bird above, 
the wood thrush sings late and the whip-poor- 
will later, and sometimes the scarlet tanager 
and his golden-haired bride send a gleam of the 
tropics through these leafy aisles. 
Sometimes I rest in a yet more secluded 
place amid the waters, where a little wooded 
island holds a small lagoon in the centre, just 
