ply a kind of
companionship to a lone fisherman. It is kindled and burns for no other
purpose than to give you the sense of being at home and at ease. Why the
fire should do this, I cannot tell, but it does.

You may build your friendship-fire in almost any way that pleases you;
but this is the way in which you shall build it best. You have no axe,
of course, so you must look about for the driest sticks that you can
find. Do not seek them close beside the stream, for there they are
likely to be water-soaked; but go back into the woods a bit and gather
a good armful of fuel. Then break it, if you can, into lengths of about
two feet, and construct your fire in the following fashion.

Lay two sticks parallel, and put between them a pile of dried grass,
dead leaves, small twigs, and the paper in which your lunch was wrapped.
Then lay two other sticks crosswise on top of your first pair. Strike
your match and touch your kindlings. As the fire catches, lay on other
pairs of sticks, each pair crosswise to the pair that is below it, until
you have a pyramid of flame. This is "a Micmac fire" such as the Indians
make in the woods.

Now you can pull off your wading-boots and warm your feet at the blaze.
You can toast your bread if you like. You can even make shift to broil
one of your trout, fastened on the end of a birch twig if you have a
fancy that way. When your hunger is satisfied, you shake out the crumbs
for the birds and the squirrels, pick up a stick with a coal at the end
to light your pipe, put some more wood on your fire, and settle down for
an hour's reading if you have a book in your pocket, or for a good talk
if you have a comrade with you.

The stream of time flows swift and smooth, by such a fire as this. The
moments slip past unheeded; the sun sinks down his western arch; the
shadows begin to fall across the brook; it is time to move on for the
afternoon fishing. The fire has almost burned out. But do not trust it
too much. Throw some sand over it, or bring a hatful of water from the
brook to pour on it, until you are sure that the last glowing ember is
extinguished, and nothing but the black coals and the charred ends of
the sticks are left.

Even the little friendship-fire must keep the law of the bush. All
lights out when their purpose is fulfilled!

VI. ALTARS OF REMEMBRANCE

It is a question that we have often debated, in the informal meetings of
our Petrine Club: Which is pleasanter,--to fis