l,) of another river, far, far
away,--broad, and deep, and seaward rushing,--now in shadow, now in
shine,--now lashed by storm, now calm as a baby's sleep,--bearing on
its vast bosom a million crafts, whereof I see only one,--a little
pinnace, frail yet buoyant,--tossed hither and thither, yet always
keeping her prow to the waves,--washed, but not whelmed. So small and
slight a thing, will she not be borne down by the merchant-ships, the
ocean steamers, the men-of-war, that ride the waves, reckless in their
pride of power? How will she escape the sunken rocks, the treacherous
quicksands, the ravening whirlpools, the black and dark night? Lo!
yonder, right across her bows, comes one of the Sea-Kings, freighted
with death for the frail little bark! Woe! woe! for the lithe little
bark! Nay, not death, but life. The Sea-King marks the path of the
pinnace. Not death, but life. Signals flash back and forth. She
discerns the voice of the Master. He, too, is steering seaward,--not
more bravely, not more truly, but a directer course. He will pilot her
past the breakers and the quicksands. He will bring her to the haven
where she would be. O brave little bark! Is it Love that watches at
the masthead? Is it Wisdom that stands at the helm? Is it Strength
that curves the swift keel?--

"Hello! how many?"

I start up wildly, and knock my hat off into the water. Jump after it,
at the imminent risk of going in myself, catch it by one of the
strings, and stare at Halicarnassus.

"Asleep, I fancy?" says Halicarnassus, interrogatively.

"Fancy," I echo, dreamily.

"How many fishes?" persists Halicarnassus.

"Fishes?" says the echo.

"Yes, fishes," repeats Halicarnassus, in a louder tone.

"Yes, it must have been the fishes," murmurs the echo.

"Goodness gracious me!" ejaculates Halicarnassus, with the voice of a
giant; "how many fishes have you caught?"

"Oh! yes," waking up and hastening to appease his wrath;
"eight,--chiefly cod."

Indignation chokes his speech. Meanwhile I wake up still further, and,
instead of standing before him like a culprit, beard him like an
avenging Fury, and upbraid him with his deception and desertion. He
attempts to defend himself, but is overpowered. Conscious guilt dyes
his face, and remorse gnaws at the roots of his tongue.

"Sinful heart makes feeble hand."

We walk silently towards the woods. We meet a small boy with a tin
pail and thirty-six fishes in it. We accost h