In the course of this morning’s drive, we visited the gentlemen on their fishing party.  They hailed us gaily, and rowed ashore to show us what fine booty they had.  No disappointment there, no dull work.  On the beautiful point of land from which we first saw them, lived a contented woman, the only one I heard of out there.  She was English, and said she had seen so much suffering in her own country that the hardships of this seemed as nothing to her.  But the others—­even our sweet and gentle hostess—­found their labors disproportioned to their strength, if not to their patience; and, while their husbands and brothers enjoyed the country in hunting or fishing, they found themselves confined to a comfortless and laborious indoor life.  But it need not be so long.

This afternoon, driving about on the banks of these lakes, we found the scene all of one kind of loveliness; wide, graceful woods, and then these fine sheets of water, with fine points of land jutting out boldly into them.  It was lovely, but not striking or peculiar.

All woods suggest pictures.  The European forest, with its long glades and green sunny dells, naturally suggested the figures of armed knight on his proud steed, or maiden, decked in gold and pearl, pricking along them on a snow white palfrey.  The green dells, of weary Palmer sleeping there beside the spring with his head upon his wallet.  Our minds, familiar with such figures, people with them the New England woods, wherever the sunlight falls down a longer than usual cart-track, wherever a cleared spot has lain still enough for the trees to look friendly, with their exposed sides cultivated by the light, and the grass to look velvet warm, and be embroidered with flowers.  These western woods suggest a different kind of ballad.  The Indian legends have, often, an air of the wildest solitude, as has the one Mr. Lowell has put into verse, in his late volume.  But I did not see those wild woods; only such as suggest little romances of love and sorrow, like this: 

        A maiden sat beneath the tree,
        Tear-bedewed her pale cheeks be,
        And she sigheth heavily.

        From forth the wood into the light,
        A hunter strides with carol light,
        And a glance so bold and bright.

        He careless stopped and eyed the maid;
        “Why weepest thou?” he gently said,
        “I love thee well; be not afraid.”

        He takes her hand, and leads her on;
        She should have waited there alone,
        For he was not her chosen one.

        He leans her head upon his breast,
        She knew ’t was not her home of rest,
        But ah! she had been sore distrest.

        The sacred stars looked sadly down;
        The parting moon appeared to frown,
        To see thus dimmed the diamond crown.

        Then from the thicket starts a deer,
        The huntsman, seizing on his spear,
        Cries, “Maiden, wait thou for me here.”