152 



11ECREA TION. 



glory, in the shining waters, thinks I'm a 

 beauty — glass eyes and all — and he 

 makes a rush for his tackle box. Then 

 he dons corderoys and outing flannels, 

 and hurrah for an early start. That's 

 the way it goes on here, from May to 

 November, and although I don't look 

 it, I have some fine feelings, and they 

 have been outraged and trampled on, 

 till I can stand it no longer." 



There was an ominous silence for 

 some time. Presently, a pretty blue 

 heron, who is a new-comer here, and 

 who spends her time looking sadly down 

 at the little green, sanded board at her 

 feet, rustled the soft feathers on her 

 breast and looked timidly about, before 

 venturing to say, that she was in entire 

 sympathy with Mr. Muscalonge, owing 

 to her glass eyes and varnished legs, to 

 say nothing of her excelsior interior ; 

 and that although she had never spent 

 a winter at a summer resort, and would 

 prefer to be wading along the margin of 

 some pond, this minute, she had sense 

 enough left to know that those days 

 were over, and although she had not 

 been in the habit of associating with 

 andirons and pokers, and had only a 

 passing acquaintance with Mr. Musca- 



longe, she foresaw that from this time 

 on, they were going to be very near 

 neighbors indeed, and when the fire died 

 out on the hearth, and the last good- 

 byes were said ; there would be long 

 cold days, and lonely nights, with the 

 pallid moon peering in through the 

 pines, with no gleam of pity on his cold 

 face, for their still colder ones. This, she 

 said, should make them more kind and 

 indulgent of one another. Living thus 

 in peace and harmony, the long winter 

 would wear awav, and they would hail 

 with joy the opening of another season. 

 Then I got up quietly and stole away 

 for what the heron had said is true ; the 

 fires are dying out ; the lights will soon 

 be quenched, and the season of '94, at 

 this " Woodland Inn," will be only a 

 memory. Now and then, in the gray 

 days that are coming, I will go in and 

 look at the cold andirons, and the 

 blackened embers on the hearth, and 

 speak a low word of cheer to them, for 

 I don't want the Muscalonge to hear 

 me, and tell them the fires will glow 

 again to warm the disappointed 

 sportsmen who are coming back next 

 year, "after the big fish that got 

 away." 



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