he reply, but soon
stingy ceased to catch any, while the rest of us pulled in the fish as
fast as we could throw the hooks. Mr. Greedy looked very solemn, and
at last, unable to repress his selfishness longer, shouted: "I think
we better share all alike!" "Too late," was the chorus, and while he
carried home but a beggarly string, the rest rejoiced in our great
abundance.

These seem like little incidents, light as airy nothings, but they
come back to memory in the twilight of life when other and greater
events are all forgotten.

When the crops were all harvested, and the winds and snows of winter
shut me out from my woodland, river, and seashore haunts, I grew weary
of the monotony of the indoor country life, and once more went to the
city of Boston in the endless quest of the unattainable.

Restless as the sea, we are never satisfied this side the stars; but
we are all looking forward to that sweet by and by, "as the hart
panteth for the water brook."

I shall be satisfied, not here, not here
Not where the sparkling waters fade into mocking
sands as we draw near,
Where in the wilderness each footstep falters,
I shall be satisfied; but, oh, not here.

Not here, where every dream of bliss deceives us,
Where the worn spirit never finds its goal,
But haunted ever by thoughts that grieve us,
Across our souls floods of bitter memories roll.

Satisfied, satisfied, the soul's vague longing,
The aching void, which nothing earthly fills,
Oh, what desires upon my mind are thronging,
As my eyes turn upward to the heavenly hills!

Shall they be satisfied, the spirit's yearning,
For sweet communion with kindred minds?
The silent love that here meets no returning,
The inspiration, which no language finds?

There is a land, where every pulse is thrilling,
With rapture, earth's sojourners may not know,
Where heaven's repose the weary heart is stilling,
And peacefully earth's storm-tossed currents flow.

Far out of sight, while yet the flesh enfolds us,
Lies that fair country, where our hearts abide,
And, of its bliss, naught more wondrous is told us,
Than these few words, I shall be satisfied.

CHAPTER XII.

FROM PHILISTINE TO BENEDICT AND A HONEYMOON.

The fates, who lead the willing-and drive the unwilling, guided me to
the old time firm of B. & T. publishers. They were overwhelmed with
applications from the great army of the