in the west, the Greatest Artist of them all prepares His marvelous colors; and, gradually, with a deft hand, He creates a masterpiece that no man can ever hope to duplicate. His canvas is limitless space and His colors are collected at the base of the rainbow. The beholder waits in silent awe and admiration. And to think that this has been going on ever since the world began; and yet, how rarely there is the slightest duplication by the Master Hand. After He has tucked the sun away for the night, He awakens the moon and stars. Promptly, at the appointed hour, the moon leaves its couch among the hills to the eastward; and, attended by a retinue of stars and planets, begins the journey of the night. As this greatest motion-picture in the world progresses, the twilight-songs and twitterings of birds, as they seek

shelter for the night, are carried to us on the soft night wind. Just as the twilight deepens, the whip-poor-will begins his evening-concert; and down near the edge of the lake in the marshy places, where the fireflies hold their nightly revels, the frogs raise their voices in one mighty chorus. Now and again, the far-off singing of a group of campers floats across the water.

When bedtime arrives, at the boys' and girl's camps, scattered along the shores of the lake, the bugle calls them to slumber; and, as the last of Taps softly dies away, we know that God is in his Heaven, and all is well. Then, as we sail homeward through the silver-tipped waves in the path of the moon, we can understand and appreciate Mrs. Meader's beautiful poem "Sunset on Lake Winnepesaukee,' because we shall know that what she says is true.