Humphry Davy, mock and jeer unfeignedly at the fish stories of that most reputable writer?  But, on the very next page, old Christopher himself meanders on into a perilous narrative of the day when he caught a whole cart-load of trout in a Highland loch.  Incorrigible, happy inconsistency!  Slow to believe others, and full of sceptical inquiry, fond man never doubts one thing—­that somewhere in the world a tribe of gentle readers will be discovered to whom his fish stories will appear credible.

One of our days on the island was Sunday—­a day of rest in a week of idleness.  We had a few books; for there are some in existence which will stand the test of being brought into close contact with nature.  Are not John Burroughs’ cheerful, kindly essays full of woodland truth and companionship?  Can you not carry a whole library of musical philosophy in your pocket in Matthew Arnold’s volume of selections from Wordsworth?  And could there be a better sermon for a Sabbath in the wilderness than Mrs. Slosson’s immortal story of Fishin’ Jimmy?

But to be very frank about the matter, the camp is not stimulating to the studious side of my mind.  Charles Lamb, as usual, has said what I feel:  “I am not much a friend to out-of-doors reading.  I cannot settle my spirits to it.”

There are blueberries growing abundantly among the rocks—­huge clusters of them, bloomy and luscious as the grapes of Eshcol.  The blueberry is nature’s compensation for the ruin of forest fires.  It grows best where the woods have been burned away and the soil is too poor to raise another crop of trees.  Surely it is an innocent and harmless pleasure to wander along the hillsides gathering these wild fruits, as the Master and His disciples once walked through the fields and plucked the ears of corn, never caring what the Pharisees thought of that new way of keeping the Sabbath.

And here is a bed of moss beside a dashing rivulet, inviting us to rest and be thankful.  Hark!  There is a white-throated sparrow, on a little tree across the river, whistling his afternoon song

     “In linked sweetness long drawn out.”

Down in Maine they call him the Peabody-bird, because his notes sound to them like Old man—­Peabody, peabody, peabody.  In New Brunswick the Scotch settlers say that he sings Lost—­lost—­Kennedy, kennedy, kennedy.  But here in his northern home I think we can understand him better.  He is singing again and again, with a cadence that never wearies, “Sweet—­sweet—­Canada, canada, canada!” The Canadians, when they came across the sea, remembering the nightingale of southern France, baptised this little gray minstrel their rossignol, and the country ballads are full of his praise.  Every land has its nightingale, if we only have the heart to hear him.  How distinct his voice is—­how personal, how confidential, as if he had a message for us!