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a bit of forked pickerel's tongue, by passing through the hook until it will hang lightly from the bend. Play it among the rapid currents around the points of the island, with thirty to forty yards of silk line out from a twelve-foot stiff rod, and you will say that your trout fishing will hardly excel it. You are no doubt aware that in August the bass are close to shore on rocky bottom, but such advice to you is "like coal to Newcastle." I give it as new to myself last summer. There is also a good trouting ground at the head of Salmon River, Richfield, Oswego County, about thirty miles from Rome, on the road to Ogdensburg. If the stream be well up, it is worth a visit.
My pen has run on in this quiet midnight until it threatens to make you weary, so thanking you, only add, as I heard an old preacher once bring up an incorrigibly old sermon of his by saying, finally and to conclude, I will say
Very sincerely yours,
CHAS. LANMAN, Esq., New York.
GEO. W. BETHUNE.
O FOR the rush of our darling stream,
For the morning beam and the evening gleam
For our dove-like tent, with white wings bent
Where we make our bed of hemlock spread,
O for the free and sinless wild,
Far from the city's pother,
Where the spirit mild of Nature's child,
O for the laugh of the merry loon,
In clear and liquid gushes;
For the roar of flood, and the echoing wood,
And the whisperings above us,
Of the twilight breeze through the trembling trees, Like words of those that love us.
O for a breath of the fresh, pure air,
For the social smoke and the hurtless joke,
Ere we tread the slope in cheery hope
O for the cast, with shrilly whisht,
The ready twist of the thrilling wrist—
The gallant play of the silvery prey,
O that the willow's leaf were free,
And the dogwood were in flower,
When the heart-bound three once more might be
Within thy forest bower;
We three, who know where'er we go
All other sports are bogus,
Compared with those thy haunts disclose,
Thy secret haunts, Saptogus.