Trails there are that one remembers from their beginnings to their ends, because of the variety and charm of the pictures offered along the way. Monotony marks the trails that fade from memory; they represent hours of marching through timber of a second growth, or skirting hills where dead sticks stand forlorn and only the fireweed blooms. Of rememberable roads the last stage of our journey to the Great Water is the one I have now in mind. It is the longest carry, two miles or less, sharply down hill, though less precipitate than the river, which, after many days of idling, now flings itself impatiently toward the shore. We linger where it makes its first great leap. Many have come thus far from the south, and, looking on the shallow pool beyond, have decided that there is no profit in going farther; or they have explored a bit and, encountering _bogwah_, have reached the same conclusion. Who would conjecture that past the shallows lie leagues of deep and winding waters, reserved by nature as a reward for the adventurer who counts a glimpse of the unknown worth all the labor of the day? We who have come from the headwaters know that nature has as wisely screened the river's source. Where the lake ends is a forbidding tangle of water shrubs and timber; the outlet is an archipelago of sharp rocks, and the stream, if found, is seen to be small and turbulent. The last carry keeps the Delectable River in view; foam, seen through the firs, marks its plunging flight. And then we draw away from it for a space, and cross an open thickly strewn with great stones, a sunlit place, where berries and a few flowers are privileged to exist. A little time is spent here in picking up the trail, which has spilled itself among the stones; then, the narrow footway regained, we drop as quickly as the river, and presently our feet touch sand. We break through a fringe of evergreens and cry out as the Greeks cried out when they saw the sea. The lake at last!-- _The river, done with wandering, The silver, silent shore._ A LINE-O'-TYPE OR TWO "_Lord, what fools these mortals be._" ARMS AND THE COLYUM. I sing of arms and heroes, not because I'm thrilled by what these heroes do or die for: The Colyum's readers think they make its laws, And I make out to give them what they cry for. And since they cry for stuff about the war, Since war at this safe distance not to _them_'s hell, I have to write of things that I abhor, And far, strange battlegrounds like Ypres and Przemysl. War is an almost perfect rime for bore; And, 'spite my readers (who have cursed and blessed me), Some day I'll throw the war junk on the floor, And write of things that really interest me: Of books in running brooks, and wilding wings, Of music, stardust, children, casements giving On seas unvext by wars, and other things That help to make our brief life worth the living.