he turned and said, "Look here !" showing me a mouthful of blood he had just thrown out upon the ground. I was aghast. "We must stop at once!" I said. 'No, no," he answered. "Don't tell the guides. It isn't serious, and I would rather move along." But by the time we went into camp-an hour or so later-he was perceptibly weak. During the night he continued to raise blood, and grew feverish and slept hardly any; while, to complete the misery of his plight, it came on to rain. In the morning he was quite unable to proceed. I was in sore distress, and knew not what to do, for it was miles to any house. It really looked as if he might die there. He lay still under the bough shelter through the day, forbidding me to go or to send for help, as I begged him to let me, telling me all the while not to worry and that he would be all right soon. Toward evening he felt better, and that night he had a pretty good sleep. The next morning he rose, stirred about a little, ate breakfast, and said, cheerily : "Well, I'm on foot again; we will march to-day !" Of course I had no thought, under the circumstances, of his marching anywhere but to the nearest place where a vehicle could be procured to carry him to Keene Valley, and in some way I implied that; whereupon, to my equal astonishment and dismay, he exclaimed: "No, indeed! we are not going back; we are going on— unless you back out." He would hear to nothing else. Accordingly we did go on, and tramped three whole days more, and returned in the end with his doctrine of the new route completely demonstrated; which route many have traveled since, and I myself repeatedly. Dr. Bushnell, I say, was a natural engineer; and, oh, what stuff withal of grit and courage was in him! I have heard him tell how, when he was in the California wilds in 1856-and, by the way, he then fixed in his mind the route by which the first Pacific railroad would have to enter the State, and eventually did-how once he came near, as he supposed, to an encounter with a grizzly bear. He thought he heard one crashing through the thicket and coming his way. tentous sound it was, he said, that sent the blood back to his heart. But he got out his pocket-knife and opened it and A por stood ready. His instinct was to front the emergency with what resources he had. It was while we were angling in company that he answered, in reply to some remark of mine, that the only good thing he could say for himself was that above everything else he had loved the truth and desired to know it. His large thoughts were habitually with him, or, at any rate, not far off. But what one felt most was his simple, loving, religious heart. It was a great thing to hear him pray in the sanctuary of nature. One of those prayers in particular is deep graven in my recollection. We had spent an afternoon toiling up the woods trail that follows the general course of John's Brook-most magnificent of mountain streams-our plan being to camp out for the night and fish down the brook the next day. Our destination was a fan-shaped cascade-a gem of beauty, called ever since then Bushnell Fallsaway up on the side of Mount Tahawus, seven miles above the Valley, which we reached at a little before sundown. The Doctor was thoroughly fatigued by the climb, and so I found him a good seat beside the basin pool below the fall, put a rod together (I think his hand-made pole was not brought along on this occasion), and left him to catch trout for supper-which he did in sufficiency, though he said he was too tired to see the waterwhile I prepared our bed and made a fire. When it came time to get into our blankets, we had a few verses out of the New Testament, and I asked him to pray. He turned partly over on his face-we were both lying down-and began in his natural voice, but with a tone as soft and melodious as the low murmur of the stream beneath, what seemed for all the world like speaking to some one who was next to him but whom I did not see. And so he continued communing, in expressions of adoring thanks and love and humility and trust and blessed hope, with that near Presence, till, when he ceased, I found every other feeling swallowed up in the thought that God was there. There was in his whole manner the vivid suggestion, the reflection, of a long and dear acquaintance, fraught with precious memories, between him and his heavenly Father-as indeed there was. 1 A BY WILLIAM GILLETTE Author of "The Private Secretary," MERICANS take their work as the English take their sport-with great seriousness. In England the house-boat is an institution. It is particularly adaptable to the conservative, slow-moving, meditative character. In America we are possessed of the illusion that we must take our pleasures with the same violence that characterizes our competitive system. We want no rest-cure in ours. If cure we must have, it shall be a travel cure, a hunting, coaching, cycling, golfing, or other cure which shall maintain the same restless spirit of motion. We are inclined to follow fashionable British precedent in many of our sports, as in our graver conventions; but the house-boat is just one peg beyond our reach. It does not suit our ideas of competitive amusement. If we have a yacht, it must be a cup-winner, and be ever on the lookout for a skirmish. The idea of snailing up the beautiful Hudson with the jolliest of company, with song and dance and chatter and books, the least of the river-craft easily passing us, seems a reflection on our progressive spirit. If it be a horse, it must be daily on the speedway looking out for a brush," and if there is a hundred dollars on the side, so much the jollier. Americans are all right when they are chained down to something stationary; they can assume a virtue of repose even if they have it not; but when they are aboard anything that moves, it must move at a swifter pace than any of its competitors. 66 It is a good test of an American's loyalty to invite him to be your guest for a day or two aboard your house-boat. I have tried it scores of times, and found many surprises. The first house-boat party was a great disillusion, but it taught me a valuable lesson. It was some years ago, when I was not many months in the sport. I had fitted up a commodious affair after the English pattern, and really thought I had something worthy of the Thames, if not, indeed, of the Hudson. The larder was well stocked, and above and below decks everything was conformable to a "Secret Service," etc., etc. clubman's idea of comfort. There were about a dozen in the party, all told, and we started up from the Battery with great éclat. I think we were about an hour and a half making Harlem River, and in that time I had lost about half my complement of guests. It was a great disappointment; but these fellows simply could not bear to see all sorts of river-craft flitting by us. The fact that almost any tug could have made rings around us all the way up the course seemed a sort of reflection on their progressiveness. They were polite and congratulatory, but visibly bored. One by one the truants slipped a bank-note into the pilot's hands, and, with the boat swinging skillfully up near this dock and that, the renegades hopped ashore, tipping their hats with somewhat the same apology, "Awfully sorry, old chap, but that's too confounded slow for me!" and started for Long Branch, Newport, Saratoga, or the Adirondacks, where they could take their recreations as violently as suited their spirit of touch-and-go. Since that time I have been very careful whom I invite to cruise with me along the Sound, up the Hudson or the Connecticut; for these over-progressive people, who are so brilliant in club-room or foyer, over the midnight damask after the play, or dashing up Fifth Avenue by automobile or behind fast trotters, are easily bored, and consequently boresome in turn, out of their element. And yet, I dare say that we are coming sooner or later to the house-boat as an institution. First of all, compare the natural advantages of a city like New York with those of London. True, the sluggish, winding Thames, with its historic piles lifting through copses of beech and oak; its towers, so ghostly in the moonlight; its cathedral spires and the clustering hamlets about, lends a certain charm to a house-boat cruise from the great metropolis of England. But from the standpoint of natural advantages, it is nothing to be compared with the Hudson, the Sound, the Connecticut River, or our own Bay. For scenic variety there is nothing in the world comparable to the diversity of interest found in our landscape and sea views, picturesque riverways, and mountains reached by the house-boat with only a few hours' travel. I have become more or less familiar with these routes, and their charm is never-ending. The Hudson may be traversed to its full length, and the northern canal is available should one wish to house-boat it through to Champlain, and even Montreal and the Thousand Islands. The Connecticut River is navigable for a considerable distance through some of the most picturesque portions of New England. In I started out with a comfortable boat, but as speed was a secondary matter with me, I miscalculated the emergency equation in case of storm along the coast. fact, I was more than once nearly blown off shore far out to sea, my engines not being strong enough to make headway against a fierce wind. On one occasion, when it was necessary for me to be in New York at a certain time, I found myself quite out at the end of Long Island, with a strong land-breeze blowing. My captain assured me that we were not mak ing a particle of progress shoreward, and, taking the helm myself, I resolved to find some shelter before the fuel ran out, or else close up shop and go below, taking chances on being picked up at sea. I managed to find shelter at last, however, but it taught me a lesson. I have twice strengthened my engines since then, and in the present reconstruction I am putting in engines that, while nothing of the "Vamoose" order, and not intended for breaking records, will nevertheless save me from the embarrassment of being picked up forty miles at sea in a condition of helplessness. The English house-boats are much simpler in construction than would be necessary here, for there is practically only the one field-the very mild and interesting Thames. It has nothing of the current of the Hudson to contend with, and surely nothing like the tides of the Sound. Nevertheless, for commodious apartments and fittings for the complete comfort of the individual, they may be well taken as patterns for the ideal. But what makes the sport so very jolly in England is the fact that there are so many people who are taking their leisure so truly leisurely, and who have house-boats on which entertainments are given for the delight of other house-boaters as well as the occasional guest from the city. There is social delight as well as safety in numbers; and the feeling that you are not absolutely a pioneer in a pleasant vice is satisfying at times, to say the least. If, when one moved on leisurely up the Hudson, at many points along the route scores of house-boats, some with intimate friends aboard, would greet you, and exchange an hour's hospitality, even the slight lonesomeness of house-boating would be eliminated. Evening hops on deck, smokers' parties, musicales, and chafing-dish regalements are more than delightful under these al fresco conditions. With all that, house-boating demands a certain talent. To one who lives at a great strain during the rest of the year, a summer spent on a house-boat is just the kind of sport that best recuperates the nervous energy, and prepares well for the coming campaign. I am often asked if I have a house-boat for the purpose of getting away from the "madding crowd" to write my plays and think out theatrical sensations. I do not doubt that there are many who would find the quiet and repose of a house-boat cruise conducive to their literary efforts; but for myself, I am, like Charles Lamb, a city bird. I like the rumble and roar of a great town like New York, and its very hustle and bustle, instead of distracting me, has quite the opposite effect. For a man inclined to literary or artistic pursuits, a house-boat might prove the very making of him. Certainly, to catch the ever-changing lights and shadows over land and sea, the houseboater has a rare opportunity; and, with a library at hand, a man of æsthetic tastes could indulge his talent to the utmost. But for me, I find the sport sufficient in itself, and give myself up completely to the dolce far niente existence which the English have made an art, and which Americans are too apt to regard as a species of laziness, but which is nevertheless a great storing-up process of nerveenergy. I despair of ever seeing anything quite so delightfully lazy about New York for many years to come; but I believe that there will yet spring up a genuine enthusiasm over here for a sport which has found such lasting favor abroad. T By Ernest Ingersoll With pictures from Mr. Chapman's book, by courtesy of the publishers, D. Appleton & Co., New York HE advance of the photographic art seems mainly due to the amateurs; and those who wished to apply the art in furthering some other purpose have been most influential in the improvement of apparatus and processes. Nowhere more than in science has photography become a means to an end; and in some directions-astronomy, for example-it almost rivals the prime instrument of re As George Iles remarks in that impressive book, "Flame, Electricity, and the Camera," "The simplicity and celerity of the camera give it inestimable value to the naturalist or the physiologist. It enables him to follow, day by day, even hour by hour, the development of a bacillus, a mollusk, or a chick. He might, if quick and skillful with the pencil, draw a portrait or two for his note-book, but how could he find time and opportunity to sketch a hundred? . . . No student of bacteriology to-day considers himself fully equipped for study until he has reached. the mastery of a camera; for his 'cultures,' microscopic as they are in size, would demand the rarest aptitude to be accurately sketched." This is fairly simple work from the photographer's point of view, however, since the objects remain quiet and the pictures are taken indoors under controlled conditions. The difficulties were greatly increased when the naturalist attempted to make his camera record for him notes in the field of living, moving creatures, or even of growing plants. It would seem easy enough, since the days of quick lenses and orthochromatic plates, to make photographs of groups or single plants in flower, yet those who try it do not find it so, and real successes are rare. Cornelius Van Brunt, whose photographs of flowers when exhibited as lantern pictures have excited wide admiration, does almost all his work in a studio under specially arranged conditions, and has stopped trying to make outdoor portraits of flowers or insects. How much more discouraging must be the effort to obtain photographs of wary and active quadrupeds or birds in their native freedom! This began with the photographing of domestic pets, cattle, etc., which could be posed and kept quiet. Next followed the attempts by sportsmen to capture the images of some of the larger game, such as buffaloes and the deer. I had the pleasure, some eight years ago, of relating in these columns how a young man had stalked bison and elk in Yellowstone Park, and "shot" them with his camera instead of with his rifle. Since then Wallihan, Leet, and Wright have made some notable game-pictures in the West. Occasional snap-shots were attempted in Maine and elsewhere at deer met in the woods or seen swimming ponds; but it was not until William E. Carlin went at it in the Rocky Mountains, with great patience and intelligence, that we began to get any variety or excellence of zoological photographs; and with the exception of Shiras's |