[Footnote 1: Are we as grateful as we should be to Mrs. Cowden Clarke? Did you ever try to find anything by the help of Ayscough, when that was the best guide to be had? If you have, you remember your teasing search for the principal word in the passage,--how _day_ seemed a less likely key than _jocund_, and yet, as this was only an adjective, perhaps _tiptoe_ were better; or, if you pitched upon _mountain-tops_, it was a problem with which half of the compound to begin the search. Consider that Mrs. Clarke is no dry word-critic, to revel in pulling the soliloquy to pieces, and half inclined to carry the work farther and give you the separate letters and the number of each, but a woman who loves Shakespeare and what he wrote. Think of her sitting down for sixteen years to pick up senseless words one by one, and stow each one away in its own niche, with a ticket hanging to it to guide the search of any one who can bring the smallest sample of the cloth of gold he wants. Think of this, whenever you open her miracle of patient labor, and be grateful.] OFF SHORE. Rock, little boat, beneath the quiet sky! Only the stars behold us, where we lie,-- Only the stars, and yonder brightening moon. On the wide sea to-night alone are we: The sweet, bright, summer day dies silently; Its glowing sunset will have faded soon. Rock softly, little boat, the while I mark The far-off gliding sails, distinct and dark, Across the west pass steadily and slow. But on the eastern waters sad they change And vanish, dream-like, gray and cold and strange, And no one knoweth whither they may go. We care not, we, drifting with wind and tide, With glad waves darkening upon every side, Save where the moon sends silver sparkles down, And yonder slender stream of changing light, Now white, now crimson, tremulously bright, Where dark the light-house stands, with fiery crown. Thick falls the dew, soundless, on sea and shore; It shines on little boat and idle oar, Wherever moonbeams touch with tranquil glow. The waves are full of whispers wild and sweet; They call to me; incessantly they beat Along the boat from stem to curved prow. Comes the careering wind, blows back my hair All damp with dew, to kiss me unaware,-- Murmuring, "Thee I love,"--and passes on. Sweet sounds on rocky shores the distant rote. Oh, could we float forever, little boat, Under the blissful sky drifting alone! LIFE IN THE OPEN AIR. BY THE AUTHOR OF "CECIL DREEME" AND "JOHN BRENT." KATAHDIN AND THE PENOBSCOT. CHAPTER IV. UMBAGOG.