PRINCE EDWARD ISLAND 65 
     
    
   
   
    
     eye to yonder mossy wood-crowned heights, watch where, between the pinnacles of 
     
     two dark firs pushed far above the many—shaded mass of green, the mid-day sun 
     
     hangs poised, as loath to turn his welcome rays from such a lovely valley. 
     
    
   
   
    
     Here is the happy hunting ground of the sportsman and angler; the joy of the 
     
     poet and artist; the promised land for which the weary school—boy sighs, where neither 
     
     rod nor book can come, save those of his own choice; and where, if the wicked do 
     
     break through and steal his best trout, he knows that “there are bigger fish in the 
     
     water than ever came ashore.” 
     
    

    
     To him that is aweary of the world—who loves not, like Ulysses, ever to be 
     
     fast bound to the mast of duty, but would list a while to the sweet song of the sirens 
     
     of pleasure with ears unstopped, or eat the lotus in the 
     
     land of forgetfulness,—what better can there be than . 
     
     this paradise of rest, this sleepy hoilo.v, where naught 
     
     breaks the stillness but the plash of a lazy trout, or the 3 
     
     drowsy hoot of an owl, or the long-drawn plaint of the 
     
     whip-poor-will; where the murmur of the far-0E rapids i 
     
     is like silence audible, and every sense is steeped ing 
     
     dreamy rest by the soft lullaby of Nature’s breathing, ; I 
     
     redolent of flowers and forest life. 
     
    
   
   
    
       
     
        
     
       
     
    
   
   
    
     If it is sport and fun you are after, join a party of i 
     
     jolly campers at Cape Abel, Fortune Bay. What life‘ 
     
     in a draught of ozone from over those blue waters, or , 
     
     a plunge into the briny as an awakener before breakfast! Li'~~wu...e __.;__ 
     
     When do the sea-trout taste so dainty, as here, when 
     
     they come sizzling from the pan? Where does song and chorus roll so free as rogi d 
     
     the evening fire? Where do joke and jibe and story come off so pat? Stale, flat, and 
     
    
   
   
    
       
     
    
   
   
    
     THE ORIGINAL CAMPERS OF P. E. I. 
     
    
   
   
    
     unprofitable they would likely fall within the pale. of civilization. But in the woods 
     
     we get back to the state of primitive. innocence? we‘are no longer carping critics; we 
     
     emulate our red-skin aboriginies; and as we smoke the pipe of peace around the