Puslapio vaizdai
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"ABOUT eight o'clock the next morning, I awoke in my bunk, in the cabin, whither some of our camarades had conveyed us after having found us to our necks in a neighboring snowbank, at the foot of a monster pine-tree. Happily, no one was seriously hurt, although we were all more or less bruised and scratched, some having secured even black eyes in our way down from the tree-top. We were all thankful that nothing worse had befallen us, and when the camarades said that they had found us sleeping away in the snow the effects of the previous night's frolic, not one of us had any thing to say to the contrary. We all felt satisfied that our escapade with Old Nick remained unknown in the camp, and we preferred leaving our chums under the impression that we had taken un verre too many, to telling them of the bargain we had made to satisfy a passing fancy. So far as Baptiste Durand was con

cerned, there is no doubt that he had forgotten the latter part of his voyage, but he never alluded to the fact, and we followed his example. It was not till many years afterward that I related the story of our aventures, just as they happened on that memorable New Year's eve. "All I can say, my friends, is that it is not so amusing as some people might think, to travel in mid-air, in the dead of winter, under the guidance of Beelzebub, running la chassegalerie, and especially if you have un ivrogne to steer your bark canoe. Take my advice, and don't listen to any one who would try to rope you in for such a trip. Wait until summer before you go to see your sweethearts, for it is better to run all the rapids of the Ottawa and the St. Lawrence on a raft, than to travel in partnership with le diable himself.”

And Joe, the cook, dipped a ladleful of boiling molasses from the big kettle on the fire, and declared that everything was now ready for the candy-pull. Honoré Beaugrand.

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There's a touch, unfelt before,
Charms our Coastland, smoothing from her
The last crease her forehead wore:
She, too, drains the sun-god's potion,
Quits her part of anchorite,

Smiles to see her leaden ocean

Sparkle in the austral light;

While the tidal depths beneath her
Palpitate with warmth and love,

And the infinite pure æther

Floods the yearning creek and cove,

Harbor, woodland, promontory,

Swarded fields that slope between,-
And our gray tower, tinged with glory,
Midway flames above the scene.

On this day of all most luring,
This one morn of all the year,
Read I-soul and body curing

In the seaward loggia here-
Once, twice, thrice, that chorus sweetest
(Fortune's darling, Sophokles!)

Of the grove whose steeds are fleetest,
Nurtured by the sacred breeze;

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