66 PRINCE EDWARD ISLAND

blazing logs, where they of old time gathered, we feel that, like them, we can swallow

a lot. Try Morell for an up-stream camp-ground; or the Eastern lakes, which can’t

be beaten for big fish—if you don’t mind the flies.

Speaking of flies reminds us of our friend Louis, who thought no more of his cast than to flick it at a wandering bull,—immature but lively. Repentance came too late; for though he made a long chase, we could hear the clicking of his reel as the terrified animal gained on him, and finally cleared a fence with the trophy hoisted on high. How we did laugh! and how the story stuck to the unfortunate hero, like the fly to His Lordship’s tail!

Girls are a good diversion in camp when they come as visitors, but a nuisance if they stay too long. They don’t seem to know what "camping out” means, in the true sense of the word. To the boys, it means a state of perfect freedom. Away from the supervision of the fair sex, they are monarchs of all they survey,—no one to scold them for being late at dinner, or filling the house with tobacco smoke.

All the same it is, no doubt, amusing to our sisters to see how contentedly we return to civilization and slavery after a week or two of this ideal liberty; and to cover our satisfaction at the comforts of home, poke fun at the ladies for making such a fuss over housekeeping in town, when we in camp had found it so simple.

And yet it cannot be denied that naughty words were sometimes whispered over the dish—washing. Indeed it is even known of a case where the scullion of the day deserted his work and tied; and, when brought to hay by the Captain and full “ Posse comitatus" under arms, took refuge in a lofty fir, where he was regularly besieged and starved into submission.

But here are the ladies to spend the day! Let us meet them at the station. “ This is the chariot, Florence,” cries Tom. And, sure enough, there it is—a huge newly-painted hay wagon, with boards across for seats. In we pile. Crack goes the whip, and we are off, a merry party enough as we hold on to one another for dear life to keep from being jolted out. “ Oh, what a bump!” But what matters a bump, when the heart is light; and we wake the echoes with song and glee. Our charioteer is quite a character in his way, and relieves the tedium of the drive with tales of his good steed “ Sconifex,” and of his eighteemyear-old dog “Cathusalem,” that trots beside.

We arrive. But, just as the ladies prepare to descend, an iznploring voice beseeches, “ Please don’t mjve, girls!” and the camera-fiend s‘ands confessed. “Starving” ’s the word , all round; and the culinary depart- ment is soon in full swing.

How self-important is the air of '1 Torn, as, tied up in a jack-towel "scomrzx" apron, he fries the fish—and his own face! Jack and Harry lay the cloth over the rustic board, and set the table with many a flourish. We fail to with a relish, and due praise is accorded the ruddy cook and the luscious red trout. All shortcomings are overlooked or made light of. If anyone puts salt in his tea, or drinks vinegar for lime-juice, the mistakes increase the fun; but when the