"Serves you right, old dill pickle. If you had got your just
dues for robbing me of that pike I'll be switched you'd be burnt
to a cinder."
Such was the general trend of the conversation. As the boat
disappeared round a jutting point of land, one of the number was
heard to exclaim:
"Gee, but I got a peachy bunch of black bass. Golly, we'll have
to hurry or it'll be dark fore we git to camp."
Thus they drifted over the waters far out to where the huge
purple rocks made soft outlines with wild, mysterious
impressiveness. They may have been expert fishermen, but it is
to be feared not real anglers; although they took a fine string
of black bass, they caught but few of the glorious reflections
and little of the unearthly beauty of the lake. Heaven had come
down to earth for them and "beauty pervaded the atmosphere like
a Presence." Think of fishing amid scenes like this! One wonders
if there will be fishing in Paradise.
What glorious vistas those waters opened up to all, stretching
away to those purple haunting distances, where may be had a
fleeting glimpse of things which are eternal and the perceiving
ear may catch strains of long remembered melodies ("those songs
without words") which only the finest souls may know. Yet here
were three men who, in their modern Ago, were returning from
their search of the golden fleece. Jason, Hercules and Theseus
could have experienced no greater joy in object won, than these
three "heroes" of the lake returning in the resin-scented
twilight with their long-sought prize of bass! A nickel up on
each black bass and not one red cent on the placid lake and the
radiant sky! Columbus, when he viewed from afar the fronded
palms of the Indies, could not have been more enraptured than
the one with fifty cents to the good.
Looking out over the lake and then at the wonderful grouping of
the elms, birches, vines and sedge along the shore that stood
hushed and expectant, as the glory slowly faded from the sky, we
said, "had this place a voice, how full of hope and calm
serenity it would be!"
Near us a boat grated softly on the pebbly bottom of a cove and
swung in. From the deep purple shadow of the wooded shore, out
over the lake a thin white veil was slowly creeping as if the
purple bloom had faded to silvery whiteness. It seemed not
unlike the breath of the sleeping water, and the spirit of the
silent lake.
Suddenly a melody that seemed as serene as the mountains and as
pure as the lake broke the silence; far up on a wooded ridge a
thrush was chanting his evening hymn to the Creator. It was as
if the soul of the quiet lake spoke to us; the spirit that
haunts high mountains, clear lakes, shadowy forests, and all
that is pure and beautiful in life; its hopes, longings and
faith were voiced in that mellow "angelus" of the forest.
We would love to see the twilight linger, but all things must
end, and we pursued our way down the winding shore road, already
gray with the coming night. Before we said good-night the mister
said, "I wonder what eternity will be like?" His comrade spoke
with a clearness of speech, declaring a truth that no one could
doubt: "Eternity is here and now, and this is our first glimpse
into paradise."
Long after retiring the words of George Herbert came and went
through memory:
"Sweet day! so cool, so calm, so bright
The bridal of the earth and sky,
The dews shall weep thy fall tonight;
For thou must die.
Sweet rose! whose hue, angry and brave,
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye;
Thy root is ever in the grave
And thou must die.
Sweet spring! full of sweet days and roses;
A box where sweets compacted lie;
My music shows you have your closes
And all must die.
Only a great and virtuous soul,
Like seasoned timber, never gives;
But, though the whole world turns to coal
Then chiefly lives."
CHAPTER XIII
THE ADIRONDACKS
Whoever passes through the Green mountains and arrives at
Burlington in the evening of a fair day will he rewarded by one
of the most beautiful views of natural scenery the world has to
offer. The outlook from the hilltop here is enchanting. Looking
westward you see the beautiful expanse of Lake Champlain, dotted
with numerous islands that stretch away to the purple wall of
the Adirondacks, whose summits are outlined by a bright golden
light which slowly ascends and diffuses along the horizon as if
striving to linger around the loveliness below. The sun
disappears, leaving an ocean of flame where he passes, and the
fleecy clouds which swim in the ether look down at their images
in the lake. Here you behold the Green mountains, showing
majestically against the sky. They are clothed in soft blue
veils, as lovely as any that Italian mountains can boast. The
highest peaks of the range, Mount Mansfield and Camel's Hump,
thrust their outlines like purple silhouettes against their
glowing background.
William Dean Howells, standing with a friend on the shore of the
Bay of Naples, remarked that he considered one scene in the
world more beautiful than that upon which they were gazing - Lake
Champlain and the Adirondacks, as seen from Burlington.
Morning came bright and clear; a cool breeze waved the clinging
foliage of birch and elm, rippling the lake near the shore and
tossing the waves far out on its bosom, which gleamed white
along their crests. This was the real Lake Champlain, for it is
a very turbulent mass of water and rarely presents a picture of
such calm and quiet beauty as we beheld on the preceding
evening. Numerous islands, "each fair enough to have keen the
Garden of Eden," seen through the level rays of the morning sun,
formed a glorious veil of color.
