Here is my sanctuary, pulpit, choir, and altar. A
gigantic pine had fallen into the lake, and its larger branches served
to keep the trunk above the water as it lay parallel with the shore.
Seated on its trunk, and shaded by some friendly willows that stretch
their graceful branches above, the hours pass in a sort of subdued
ecstasy of enjoyment. It is peace, the peace of God. No echo of the
world's discords reaches me. The only sound I hear is the cooing of a
turtledove away off in a distant gorge of the mountain. It floats down
to me on the Sabbath air with a pathos as if it voiced the pity of
Heaven for the sorrows of a world of sin, and pain, and death. The
shadows of the pines are reflected in the pellucid depths, and ever and
anon the faintest hint of a breeze sighs among their branches overhead.
The lake lies without a ripple below, except when from time to time a
gleaming trout throws himself out of the water, and, falling with a
splash, disturbs the glassy surface, the concentric circles showing
where he went down. Sport on, ye shiny denizens of the deep; no angler
shall cast his deceitful hook into your quiet haunts this day. Through
the foliage of the overhanging boughs the blue sky is spread, a thin,
fleecy cloud at times floating slowly along like a watching angel, and
casting a momentary shadow upon the watery mirror below.
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