The sun of August from a clear blue sky
Shone on Lake Saranac. The South-wind stirred
Mildly the woods encircling, that threw down
A purple shadow on the liquid smoothness
Glassing the eastern border, while the west
Lay bared to light.

Wild, virgin nature all!
Except that here and there a partial clearing,
Made by the sportsman's axe for summer tents,
Dented the massive verdure, and revealed
A little slope of bank, dotted with stumps
And brown with slender aromatic leaves
Shed from the pine, the hemlock, and the fir
In layers that gave a soft and slippery carpet.

Near one of these small openings where the breeze
Crept resinous and cool from evergreens
Behind them, while the sun blazed bright before,—
Where with the pine-trees' vapory depth of hue
The whiteness of a spacious tent contrasted,
Beside which, on a staff, the nation's flag
Flung out its crimson with protecting pride,—
Reclined a wife and husband, looking down
Less on the glorious lake than on the glory
That, through a gauzy veil, played round the head
Of a reposing infant, golden-tressed,
Asleep upon a deer-skin at their feet,
While a huge dog kept watchful guard beyond:
For there lay little Mary Merivale.

Boats on the lake showed that this group detached
Were part of a well-chosen company.
Here children ran and frolicked on the beach;
There an old man, rowed by two guides, stood up
With rod and line and reel, while swiftly flew
The reel, announcing that a vigorous trout
Just then had seized the hook. Came the loud cry,—
"Look, Charles! Look, Linda! See me land him now!
Don't touch him with your scoop, men! I can fetch him,"—
In tones not unfamiliar to our ears.
And there, six boats swept by, from which the voices
Of merry children and their elder friends—
Mothers and fathers, teachers, faded aunts,
Dyspeptic uncles, wonderfully cured
All by this tonic, Adirondack air—
Came musical and loud: a strange collection,
Winnowed by Rachel (now the important queen
Of all this sanitary revelry)
From her acquaintance in the public schools;
Whence her quick sympathies had carried her
Straight to the overworked, the poor, the ailing,
Among the families of her associates,
When Linda planned this happy enterprise
Of a grand camping-out for one whole month.
The blind aunt and the grandmother, of course,
High and important persons, Rachel's aids,
Graced the occasion; for the ancient dame
Had lived in such a region in her youth,
And in all sylvan craft was proudly wise:
Declaring that this taste of life would add
Some ten years to her eighty-five, at least.

On went the boats, all large and safely manned,
In competition not too venturesome.
Then, from a rocky outlook on the hill,
There came a gush of music from a band,
Employed to cheer with timely melody
This strange encampment in the wilderness.
Hark! Every voice is hushed as down the lake
The breathing clarions accordant send
The tune of "Love Not" to each eager ear!
The very infant, in its slumber, smiled
As if a dream of some old paradise
Had been awakened by the ravishment.

"Look at the child!" cried Linda; "mark that smile!
All heaven reflected in a dew-drop! See!"
"And all the world grasped in that little fist,—
At least as we esteem the world!" cried Charles.
"And yet," said Linda, "'tis a glorious world:
See how those families enjoy themselves!"
"And who created all this happiness?"
The husband said,—"who, after God, but Linda?
Who spends her money, not in rearing piles
Of cold and costly marble for her pride,—
Not in great banquets for the rich and gay
Who need them not, and laugh at those who give,—
Where, at one feast, enough is spent to make
All these poor people radiant for a month,—
But in exhilarations coming from
Communicated joy and health and life,—
The happiness that's found in making happy."

"All selfishness!" cried Linda; "selfishness!
I seek my happiness, and others theirs;
Only my tastes are different; more plebeian,
Haply, they'd say; but, husband mine, reflect!
You, too, I fear, are lacking in refinement:
Would this have been, had you not acquiesced
In all these vulgar freaks, and found content,
Like me, in giving pleasure to the needy?
And tell me—passing to another point—
Where would have been the monarch of this joy,
That little child,—that antepast of bliss
Such as the angels taste,—had I recoiled
From daring as I did, even when I knew
He I most wished to win would think me bold?"

"Ah! little wife," cried Charles, "I've half a mind
To tell you what I've never told you yet.
Yes, I will tell you all, although it may
End the complacent thought that Linda did it—
Did it by simply daring to propose!
Know, then, a constant track of you I kept,
Even while I seemed to shun you. I could kneel
Before your recollection in my heart,
When you regarded me as shy and cold.
And, while by poverty held reticent,
I saw, supreme among my hopes, but Linda!
Before we left the sea-side I had learnt,
Through gossip of my worthy landlady,
Where you would go, returning to New York.
I found your house; I passed it more than once
When, like a beacon, shone your study-lamp.
The very night before you called upon me
To ask, would I take Rachel as my pupil,
(How kind in you to patronize my school!)
I sought an anodyne for my despair
In watching for your shadow on the curtain.

"Discovery of that unexpected debt,
Owed by my father, killed the last faint hope
Which I had cherished; and our interview—
Your daring offer of this little hand—
But made me emulous to equal you
In self-renouncing generosity;
And so, I frankly told you what I told:
That love and marriage were not in my lot.

"Ten days elapsed, and then from utter gloom
I sprang to cheerful light. My father's partner,
The man named Judd, who robbed us all one day,
Had a compunctious interval, and sent
A hundred thousand dollars back to us—
Why do you smile?"

"That very day I cleared myself from debt;
That very day I sued for Linda's hand;
That very day she gave it willingly;
And the next month beheld us two made one.
And so it would have been, if you, my dear,
Had made no sign, and waited patiently.
But ah! what luck was mine! After two days,
The news arrived that Linda was an heiress.
An heiress! Think of it; and I had said,
Never, no, never would I wed an heiress!
But 'twas too late for scruples; I was married,—
Caught in the trap I always meant to shun!"

Then Linda, mischief in her smile, exclaimed:
"O simple Charles! The innocent dear man!
Who doubts but woman ought to hold her tongue,
And wait till he, the preordained, appear?
That hundred thousand dollars, you are sure,
Was from your father's partner—was from Judd?"

"Of course it was,—from Judd, and no one else!
Who could have sent the money, if not Judd?
No doubt it came from Judd! My father said,
'Twas conscience-money, and restored by Judd,
Who had become a deacon in the Church.
Why did you ask me whether I was sure
The hundred thousand dollars came from Judd?
What are you smiling at, provoking Linda?"
"O,

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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