Xiving witb a Xahe. 



205 



we know that the friendly birds will soon vacate their 

 summer homes. The stripping of the trees will 

 shortly begin, and before we realise that it is time, 

 there will be a hoar frost in the swampy field yonder, 

 and the sharp needles of ice will dart to and fro on 

 the black water, and some fine morning there will be 

 six inches of hard, cold, glassy tiling laid down over 

 its surface. 



But long before that, our life with the lake will be 

 only a sweet dream of the summer, a memory to 

 be called up in winter days, and to be grateful for 

 always. 



