CRUISE OF LA BELLE MARGUERITE 
A sleeping-bag is a delightful thing in a cold 
climate; one dresses instead of undressing for 
bed, and puts on all the clothes he has, if his 
blanket is thin, while going to bed is very much 
like crawling into a hole and pulling the hole 
in afterwards, a thing most of us would like 
to do metaphorically from time to time. 
To sleep out under the stars in cool, pure air, 
free from mosquitoes or flies of any sort, to 
breathe in the fragrance of the balsam and the 
sea, to be gently rocked by the subdued ocean 
waves in protected harbours, to be lulled to 
sleep by the lapping of the water against the 
boat’s sides, by the calls of the spotted sandpiper 
and the evening hymn of the robin, to awake to 
the song of the fox sparrow and the white- 
throat on the shores, and the love-cooing of the 
eider on the water, —this was indeed good 
and productive of heart’s content. 
Such a boat as this should needs have a 
name, but the need apparently had not occurred 
to the owners. I asked, therefore, the name of 
one of the daughters of Mathias, who, in prep- 
aration for the cruise, was diligently scrubbing 
the cabin at the moorings off Esquimaux Point, 
and at once with due solemnity christened the 
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