THE STORY OF A DESERTED FARM-HOUSE. 113
THE STORY OF A DESERTED FARM-HOUSE.
BY WILLIAM O. CLOUGH.
We were in the full enjoyment of a fortnight in boating, fishing, and "roughing it" among the islands and along the shores of a picturesque New England lake. Nothing disturbed or in any way inconvenienced us. We had an abundant supply of food, blankets, and miscellaneous reading matter; and, being in no hurry about our movements, it was all the same where night overtook us. In fact, having freed ourselves from the cares, perplexities and anxieties of our every day life, its vocations and social surroundings, we were careless in our wanderings and indifferent to all else but the pleasure we experienced in drifting idly about.
Toward the close of the third day of our voyaging, our boat glided gracefully into the shadow of a mountainous woodland, and drifted slowly under the overhanging branches of birches and maples. The scene was that of nature robed in her richest tints, impressive in grandeur and inspiring in contemplation. The sun looked down upon us from a clear sky; scarcely a ripple disturbed the surface of the water; our sail hung loose by the mast, and we were made to feel the force of the oft repeated quotation from the old dramatist, "Man made the town, but God made the country."
Drifting! The gently ebbing current chanted a sweet lullaby upon the pebbles on the shore, and the notes of the lark and robin seemed a musical symphony that floated past us on the balmy air and broke on the shore beyond. All about us was grandly harmonious: all above and beyond, wondrous beauty. It was such a place and such a picture of repose as the dreamer most fervidly desires, for it invites reverie and leads from contemplation of selfish things to sweet communion with things fanciful yet real.
Drifting! For nearly an hour our boat floated with the current, past rocky prominences, and in a continuous panorama of beauty which is a joy forever. On and on in the aroma of ferns and wild flowers, and constantly changing sea and landscape. On till midnight obscured the brilliant horizon, darkening and adding awe to the forest. On till an evening breeze quickened the expanse of water and filled our sail; till night deepened our surroundings, absorbed the day, and gave more of prominence to the notes of the wood-land songster and the odor of fir and balsam.
Drifting! The moon arose above the forest and revealed a new beauty of lake and landscape; blending the reach of our vision in harmony sweeter than a sonnet, and adding beauty far excelling the most inspired conception of the artist and imaginings of the devotee of art.
Drifting! Anon we came to a clearing in the wood-land, a peninsula in miniature, a lovely spot, a romantic place in all its surroundings. In its center, guarded by a group of giant elms, nestled a deserted farm-house — the oasis we had hoped to discover, and the place which was to afford us an abiding-place for the night. Accordingly we lowered and made fast our sail, piloted our boat upon the sandy shore and transferred our creature comforts and necessities to this once, doubtless, hospitable dwelling. John, my only companion, who took the lead in all matters appertaining to the larder, prospected the place, and meanwhile I dressed some fish and attended to other camp matters which, by common consent, were a part of my duties. Said John, returning to the boat after a few minutes' absence, "the beauty and convenience of this place are nearer my idea of a romantic habitation in which to spend the night,
