Amherst Island, which is some miles in extent, stands between Ontario and the Bay of Quinte, its upper and lower extremity forming the two straits that are called the Upper and Lower Gap, and the least breeze, which is not perceptible in the other portions of the bay, is felt here. Passing through these gaps on a stormy day creates as great a nausea as a short chopping sea on the Atlantic, and I have seen both men and women retreat to their berths to avoid disagreeable consequences. Amherst Island is several miles in extent, and there are many good farms in high cultivation upon it, while its proximity on all sides to the water affords excellent sport to the angler and gunner, as wild ducks abound in this vicinity. Just after you pass the island and enter the lower gap, there are three very small islands in a direct line with each other, that are known as the three brothers. A hermit has taken up his abode on the centre one, and built a very Robinson Crusoe looking hut near the water, composed of round logs and large stones cemented together with clay. He gets his living by fishing and fowling, and you see his well-worn, weather-beaten boat, drawn up in a little cove near his odd dwelling. I was very curious to obtain some particulars of the private history of this eccentric individual, but beyond what I have just related, my informants could tell me nothing, or why he had chosen this solitary abode in such an exposed situation, and so far apart from all the comforts of social life. The town of Bath is the last place of any note on this portion of the Bay, until you arrive at Kingston. A Morning Song. "The young wheat is springing All tender and green, And the blackbird is singing The branches between; The leaves of the hawthorn Have burst from their prison, And the bright eyes of morn On the earth have arisen. "While sluggards are sleeping, Oh hasten with me; While the night mists are weeping Soft showers on each tree, And nature is glowing Beneath the warm beam, The young day is throwing O'er mountain and stream. "And the shy colt is bounding Across the wide mead, And his wild hoofs resounding, Increases his speed; Now starting and crossing At each shadow he sees, Now wantonly tossing His mane in the breeze. "The sky-lark is shaking The dew from her wing, And the clover forsaking, Soars upwards to sing, In rapture outpouring Her anthem of love, Where angels adoring Waft praises above. "Shake dull sleep from your pillow, Young dreamer arise, On the leaves of the willow The dew-drop still lies, And the mavis is trilling His song from the brake, And with melody filling The wild woods--awake!" CHAPTER X Grace Marks