necessity. The seaside? Cape May and York Beach are among our first
remembrances. We believe in change. The mountains? Their inexhaustible
variety will never pall, but then we have "done" the White Mountains,
explored the Catskills, and encamped among the Adirondacks in years gone
by. Saratoga? We have never been there, but we have an abhorrence for a
great fashionable crowd. To say the truth, we are heartily sick of
"summer resorts," with their gambling, smoking, and drinking. The great
watering-places hold no charms for us. "The world, the flesh, and the
devil" there hold undisputed sway: we desire a gentler rule.

"What do you say to a trip on the Great Lakes?" suggests my friend,
Ralph Vincent, with indefatigable patience.

"I--I don't know," I answered, thoughtfully.

"Don't know!" cried "the Historian"--(we called Hugh Warren by that
title from his ability to always give information on any mooted point).
He was a walking encyclopaedia of historical lore. "Don't know! Yes, you
do. It is just what we want. It will be a delightful voyage, with scenes
of beauty at every sunset and every sunrise. The Sault de Ste. Marie
with its fairy isles, the waters of Lake Huron so darkly, deeply,
beautifully green, and the storied waves of Superior with their memories
of the martyr missionaries, of old French broils and the musical flow of
Hiawatha. The very thought is enough to make one enthusiastic. How came
you to think of it, Vincent?"

"I never think: I scorn the imputation," repled Vincent, with a look of
assumed disdain. "It was a inspiration."

"And you have inspired us to a glorious undertaking. The Crusades were