boat, which bore no lady of the lake, but a red-shirted
woodsman. The artist whom we sought was on that very island, it seemed,
sketching patiently while his guides were driving the deer.

This artist was he whose "Procession of the Pines" had identified his
fame with that delightful forest region. He it was who had laid out
with artistic taste "The Philosopher's Camp," and who was that season
still awaiting philosophers as well as deer. He had been there for a
month, alone with the guides, and declared that Nature was pressing
upon him to an extent that almost drove him wild. His eyes had a
certain remote and questioning look that belongs to imaginative men who
dwell alone. It seemed an impertinence to ask him to come out of his
dream and offer us dinner; but his instincts of hospitality failed not,
and the red-shirted guide was sent to the camp, which was, it seemed,
on the other side of the lake, to prepare our meal, while we bathed. I
am thus particular in speaking of the dinner, not only because such is
the custom of travellers, but also because it was the occasion of an
interlude which I shall never forget. As we were undressing for our
bath upon the lonely island, where the soft, pale water almost lapped
our feet, and the deep, wooded hills made a great amphitheatre for the
lake, our host bethought himself of something neglected in his
instructions.

"Ben!" vociferated he to the guide, now rapidly receding. Ben paused on
his oars.

"Remember to bo-o-oil the venison, Ben!" shouted the pensive artist,
while all the slumbering echoes arose to applaud this culinary
confidence.

"And, Ben!" he added, imploringly, "don't forget the dumplings!" Upon
this, the loons, all down the lake, who had hitherto been silent, took
up the strain with vehemence, hurling their wild laughter at the
presumptuous mortal who thus dared to invade their solitudes with
details as trivial as Mr. Pickwick's tomato-sauce. They repeated it
over and over to each other, till ten square miles of loons must have
heard the news, and all laughed together; never was there such an
audience; they could not get over it, and two hours after, when we had
rowed over to the camp and dinner had been served, this irreverent and
invisible chorus kept bursting out, at all points of the compass, with
scattered chuckles of delight over this extraordinary bill of fare.
Justice compels me to add that the dumplings were made of Indian-meal,
upon a recipe devised