I GO A-FISHING. 
$300! Lumber is cheap up there, and so is 
Indian labor. 
A generous piazza surrounds the living 
room, which is all windows. There is no 
ceiling but the roof, with a dormer up to- 
ward the peak in front, to let in more light 
and air. The furnishings are simple but 
pretty and appropriate. The bread box is 
covered with a steamer rug and serves as a 
divan beneath one window. The china 
closet, made of a box lined with green 
paper, is filled with blue and white dishes 
and German brown ware. One touch of 
elegance is Napoleon’s bust, adorning a 
shelf; and a rustic corner desk holds the 
birch bark guest book. The sofas are cots, 
with many pillows, and are always avail- 
able for chance guests over night. The 
crewning luxury is a red brick fireplace 
and chimney gracing the place of honor 
opposite the front door. There are 2 square 
bedrooms behind the living room, with 2 
cots in each. The wide windows open to . 
the woods, and the partitions extend only 
half way to the roof. Another bedroom at 
the left behind the piazza, and the kitchen, 
or galley, at the right and opposite, com- 
plete this gem of a house. Saint Helen 
reigns supreme, and all her guests are 
happy. 
419 
PLAN OF ST. HELEN. 
_ Behind, paths are carved through the 
jungle, rustic seats are built on distant 
rocks, bridges are planned across ravines 
and chasms, and although coming years 
may transform this lovely spot into some- 
thing nearer perfection to most eyes, the 
charm of this first year of pioneering will 
never be excelled. 
Other people have bought surrounding 
islands. All F and G groups are gone 
and H is fast disappearing. The ‘artist has 
named hers Mandalay and the Ph. D. has 
a Wonderland. The skipper is putting a 
shack on Oneishta, and there is to be a 
log cabin on the surveyor’s rock. It is 
even rumored that a man from New York 
is to build a 2 story house soméwhere 
across the channel! and Him and his Wife, 
around the corner at Duazyupleze, are to 
have a real steamer dock, where the “Bri- 
tannic” may stop! 
It will change, but it can not lose its 
charm. The sweet winds will always blow; 
the white winged gulls will circle there; 
the happy beasts will not go far away; the 
clouds and sun, the clear, cold, water and 
the painted rocks can not change. The 
happy isles are there forever, and as the 
summers go the memories will remain. 
I GO A-FISHING. 
R. S. STRINGFELLOW. 
Somewhere I have read of an angler, 
Who gained a wondrous fame. 
He lived in the land of Israel; 
St. Peter was his name. 
“T go a-fishing,” he said one day 
To his friends in Galilee; 
“I go a-fishing.” So says the Book; 
And off he went with line and hook, 
A-fishing in the sea. . 
Since then along that storm-beat shore 
Many a wave and billow roar; 
And in the rush of wave and blast 
Many a life has breathed its last. 
But still the anglers go! 
“T go a-fishing,” ‘tis often said, 
Although St. Peter’s long since dead. 
But the words of this reverend saint and sage, 
There on the good Book’s sacred page, 
Live on and on from age to age, 
And still the fishers go! 
“T go a-fishing!” Three fishers, this time, 
Will be the subjects of my rhyme. 
*Twas in midsummer’s sweltering days; 
The sun beat down with scorching rays, 
When off to the West these fishers went, 
With heart and mind on pleasure bent, 
Away to the West, these fishers three. 
With jocund song, right merrily 
They pass the time away! 
“T go a-fishing!” Three fishers bold 
Now emulate the saints of old. 
To mountain stream and shady nook, 
Afar with rod and line and hook, 
They make their way; through hot sun- 
shine, 
To where, ’neath shady cliff and pine, 
They hope, if fortune prove so kind, 
On speckled trout they soon may dine! 
So lived the saints of old! 
“T go a-fishing,” now each one said, 
“The spot we've reached and camp is 
made” ; 
And soon beneath the cooling shade, 
With boots waist-high, the stream they 
wade! 
The joyous time flies all too fast, 
While here and there with fly they cast; 
And in each boiling crystal pool 
Some wily trout would play the fool— 
Much to the angler’s joy! 
But all too fast the moments fly, 
The time has come to say good-bye. 
Back to town and dusty street, 
Back to sun and sweltering heat. 
But memory sweet shall still be mine, 
I'll think and sing.of auld lang syne; 
And the good old angler of Galilee 
My guardian saint, I trust, will be! 
