"Don't go there!" was the warning sound; Char-co-o-al! "Oh stop!" good Biddy cried, "and lave Char-co-o-al! "Beware of Main street crossing deep, Char-co-o-al! At set of sun, as homeward went, A man upon the watchman's round, There in the gaslight, dim and gray, Char-co-o-al! AMBITION.-LORD BYRON. HIE who ascends to mountain tops shall find The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow: Ile, who surpasses or subdues mankind, Must look down on the hate of those below. Though high above the sun of glory glow, And far beneath the earth and ocean spread, Round him are icy rocks, and loudly blow And thus reward the toils which to those summits led. CROSSING THE CARRY.-REV. W. II. H. MURRAY, ÚCENE.-The Adirondacks during a shower. A pleasure-seeker and his guide on the road. "JOIN," said I, as we stood looking at each other across the boat, "this rain is wet." "It generally is, up in this region, I believe," he responded, as he wiped the water out of his eyes with the back of his hand, and shook the accumulating drops from nose and chin; "but the waterproof I have on has lasted me some thirty-eight years, and I don't think it will wet through to-day." "Well!" I exclaimed, "there is no use of standing here in this marsh-grass any longer; help me to load up. I'll take the baggage, and you the boat." "You'll never get through with it, if you try to take it all at once. Better load light, and I'll come back after what's left," was the answer. "I tell you," he continued, "the swamp is full of water, and soft as muck.” 'John," said I, "that baggage is going over at one load, sink or swim, live or die, survive or perish. I'll make the attempt, swamp or no swamp. My life is assured against accidents by fire, water, and mud; so here goes. What's life to glory!" I exclaimed, as I seized the pork-bag, and dragged it from under the boat; "stand by and see me put my armor on." Over my back I slung the provision basket, made like a fisherman's creel, thirty inches by forty, filled with plates, coffee, salt, and all the impedimenta of camp and cooking utensils. This was held in its place by straps passing over the shoulders and under the arms, like a Jew-pedler's pack. There might have been eighty pounds' weight in it. Upon the top of the basket, John lashed my knapsack, full of bullets, powder, and clothing. My rubber suit and heavy blanket, slung around my neck by a leather thong, hung down in front across my chest. On one shoulder the oars and paddles were balanced, with a frying pan and gridiron swinging from the blades; on the other was my rifle, from which were suspended a pair of boots, my creel, a coffee-pot; and a bag of flour. 40*% Taking up the bag of pork in one hand, and seizing the stock of the rifle with the other, from two fingers of which hung a tin kettle of prepared trout, which we were loath to throw away, I started. Picture a man so loaded, forcing his way through a hemlock swamp, through whose floor of thin moss he sank to his knees; or picking his way across oozy sloughs on old roots, often covered with mud and water, and slippery beyond description, and you have me daguerreotyped in your mind. Well, as I said, I started. For some dozen rods I got on famously, and was congratulating myself with the thought of an easy transit, . when a root upon which I had put my right foot gave way, and, plunging headlong into the mud, I struck an attitude of petition; while the frying-pan and gridiron, flung off the oars and forward by the movement, alighted upon my prostrated head. An ejaculation, not exactly religious, escaped me, and with a few desperate flounces I assumed once more the perpendicular. Fishing the frying-pan from the mud, and lashing the gridiron to my belt, I made another start. It was hard work. The most unnatural adjustment of weight upon my back made it difficult to ascertain just how far behind me lay the centre of equilibrium. I found where it did not lie several times. Before I had gone fifty rods the camp. basket weighed one hundred and twenty pounds. The pork-bag felt as if it had several shoats in it, and the oarblades stuck out in the exact form of an X. If I went one side of a tree, the oars would go the other side. If 1 backed up, they would manage to get entangled amid the brush. If I stumbled and fell, the confounded things would come like a goose-poke athwart my neck, pinning me down. As I proceeded, the mud grew deeper, the roots farther apart, and the blazed trees less frequent. Never before did I so truly realize the aspiration of the old hymn, "O, had I the wings of a dove!" At last I reached what seemed impossible to pass,an oozy slough, crossed here and there by cedar roots, smooth and slippery, lay before me. From a high stump which I had climbed upon I gave a desperate leap. I struck where I expected, and a little farther. The weight of the basket, which was now something over two hun It dred pounds was too much for me to check at once. pressed me forward. I recovered myself, and the abominable oars carried me as far the other way. The moccasins of wet leather began to slip along the roots. They began to slip very often, and at bad times. I found it necessary to change my position suddenly. I changed it. It wasn't a perfect success. I tried again. It seemed necessary to keep on trying. I suspect I did not effect the changes very steadily, for the trout began to jump about in the pail and fly out into the mud. The gridiron got uneasy, and played against my side like a steam-flapper. In fact, the whole baggage seemed endowed with supernatural powers of motion. The excitement was contagious. In a moment, every article was jumping about like mad. I, in the meantime, continued to dance a hornpipe on the slippery roots. Now I am conscientiously opposed to dancing. I never danced. I'didn't want to learn. I felt it was wicked for me to be hopping around on that root so. What an example, I thought, if John should see me! What would my wife say? What would my deacons say? I tried to stop. I couldn't. I had an astonishing dislike to sit down. I thought I would dance there forever, rather than sit down,-deacons or no deacons. The basket now weighed any imaginable number of pounds. The trout were leaping about my head, as if in their native element. The gridiron was in such rapid motion that it was impossible to distinguish the bars. There was, apparently, a whole litter of pigs in the porkbag. I could not stand it longer. I concluded to rest awhile. I wanted to do the thing gracefully. I looked around for a soft spot, and, seeing one just behind me, 1 checked myself. My feet flew out from under me. They appeared to be unusually light. I don't remember that I ever sat down quicker. The motion was very decided The only difficulty I observed was, that the seat I had gracefully settled into had no bottom. The position of things was extremely picturesque. The oars were astride my neck, as usual. The trout-pail was bottom up, and the contents lying about almost anywhere. The boots were hanging on a dry limb overhead. A capital idea. I thought of it as I was in the act of sitting down. One piece of pork lay at my feet, and another was sticking up, some ten feet off, in the mud. It looked very queer, slightly out of place. With the same motion with which I hung my boots on a limb, as I seated myself, I stuck my rifle carefully into the mud, muzzle downward. I never saw a gun in that position before. It There was no danger struck me as being a good thing. of its falling over and breaking the stock. The first thing When that I did was to pass the gridiron under me. feat had been accomplished, I felt more composed. It's pleasant for a man in the position I was in to feel that he has something under him. Even a chip or a small stump would have felt comfortable. As I sat thinking how many uses a gridiron could be put to, and estimating where I should then have been if I hadn't got it under me, I heard John forcing his way, with the boat on his back, through the thick undergrowth. "It won't do to let John see me in this position,” I said; and so, with a mighty effort, I disengaged myself from the pack, flung off the blanket from around my neck, and, seizing hold of a spruce limb, which I could fortunately reach, drew myself slowly up. I had just time to jerk the rifle out of the mud, and fish up about half of the trout, when John came struggling along. John," said I, leaning unconcernedly against a tree, as if nothing had happened," John, put down the boat, here's a splendid spot to rest. "Well, Mr. Murray," queried John, as he emerged from under the boat, "how are you getting along?" "Capitally!" said I; "the carry is very level when you once get down to it. I felt a little out of breath, and thought I would wait for you a few moments." "What's your boots doing up there in that tree?" exclaimed John, as he pointed up to where they hung dangling from the limb, about fifteen feet above our heads. Boots doing!" said I, "why they are hanging there, don't you see? You didn't suppose I'd drop them into 46 this mud, did you?" 64 Why, no," replied John, "I don't suppose you would; but how about this?" he continued, as he stooped down and pulled a big trout, tail foremost, out of the soft muck; "how did that trout come there?" |