When sailing home one day with a wet sheet, a flowing main, and a breeze following far abaft, we espied a boat submerged to the gunwhale floating out to sea. Throwing our yacht up into the wind, we took the craft in tow to the landing, and were surprised and delighted beyond measure to find it nearly half full of fine large lobsters, held there by a wire netting. For weeks we and all the neighbors held high carnival boiling and eating the luscious crustaceans. We had much merriment one day on a fishing excursion at the expense of a parsimonious member of our crew. At first he alone pulled in the much prized tomcods and flounders. "Well," said he, "I think we better go in, each one for himself." "All right," was the reply, but soon stingy ceased to catch any, while the rest of us pulled in the fish as fast as we could throw the hooks. Mr. Greedy looked very solemn, and at last, unable to repress his selfishness longer, shouted: "I think we better share all alike!" "Too late," was the chorus, and while he carried home but a beggarly string, the rest rejoiced in our great abundance. These seem like little incidents, light as airy nothings, but they come back to memory in the twilight of life when other and greater events are all forgotten. When the crops were all harvested, and the winds and snows of winter shut me out from my woodland, river, and seashore haunts, I grew weary of the monotony of the indoor country life, and once more went to the city of Boston in the endless quest of the unattainable. Restless as the sea, we are never satisfied this side the stars; but we are all looking forward to that sweet by and by, "as the hart panteth for the water brook." I shall be satisfied, not here, not here Not where the sparkling waters fade into mocking sands as we draw near, Where in the wilderness each footstep falters, I shall be satisfied; but, oh, not here. Not here, where every dream of bliss deceives us, Where the worn spirit never finds its goal, But haunted ever by thoughts that grieve us, Across our souls floods of bitter memories roll. Satisfied, satisfied, the soul's vague longing, The aching void, which nothing earthly fills, Oh, what desires upon my mind are thronging, As my eyes turn upward to the heavenly hills! Shall they be satisfied, the spirit's yearning, For sweet communion with kindred minds? The silent love that here meets no returning, The inspiration, which no language finds? There is a land, where every pulse is thrilling, With rapture, earth's sojourners may not know, Where heaven's repose the weary heart is stilling, And peacefully earth's storm-tossed currents flow. Far out of sight, while yet the flesh enfolds us, Lies that fair country, where our hearts abide, And, of its bliss, naught more wondrous is told us, Than these few words, I shall be satisfied. CHAPTER XII. FROM PHILISTINE TO BENEDICT AND A HONEYMOON.