trees.  A book of the essentially American nature—­poems found here and there in many volumes—­would be pleasant, for surely we have had no one poet as to whom it is felt that he is absolutely desirable as the interpretive poetic observer who has positive claims to go with us as a friendly bookmate in our wood or water wanderings.  I have shrunk, as will have been seen, from the dangerous venture of enlarging my brief catalogue.  What I have just now spoken of as one’s bookmates will appear in very different lights according to the surroundings in which we seek to enjoy their society.  If, as to this matter, any one doubts me, and has the good luck to camp out long, and to have a variety of books of verse and prose, very soon, if dainty of taste, he will find that the artificial flavoring of some books is unpleasantly felt; but, after all, one does not read very much when living thus outside of houses.  Books are then, of course, well to have, but rather as giving one texts for thoughts and talk than as preachers, counsellors, jesters, or friends.

In my own wood-life or canoe journeys I used to wonder how little I read or cared to read.  One has nowadays many resources.  If you sketch, no matter how badly, it teaches and even exacts that close observation of nature which brings in its train much that is to be desired.  Photography is a means of record, now so cheaply available as to be at the disposal of all, and there is a great charm of a winter evening in turning over sketch or photograph to recall anew the pleasant summer days.  Beyond all this, there is botany.  I knew a lady who combined it happily and ingeniously with photography, and so preserved pictures of plants in their flowering state.  When you are out under starry skies with breadth of heaven in view, astronomy with an opera-glass—­and Galileo’s telescope was no better—­is an agreeable temptation which the cheap and neat charts of the skies now to be readily obtained make very interesting.

I should advise any young woman, indeed, any one who has the good chance to live a camp-life, or to be much in the country, to keep a diary, not of events but of things.  I find myself that I go back to my old note-books with increasing pleasure.

To make this resource available something more than the will to do it is necessary.  Take any nice young girl, who is reasonably educated, afloat in your canoe with you, and ask her what she sees.  As a rule she has a general sense that yonder yellow bank, tree-crowned above the rippled water, is pleasant.  The sky is blue, the sun falling behind you.  She says it is beautiful and has a vague sense of enjoyment, and will carry away with her little more than this.  Point out to her that the trees above are some of them deciduous poplars, or maples, and others sombre groups of pines and silky tamarack with a wonder of delicate tracery.  Show her that the sun against the sloped yellow bank has covered the water with a shining changeful orange light, through which gleam