And gone is the golden moon.

O! lure of the Lost Lagoon--
I dream to-night that my paddle blurs
The purple shade where the seaweed stirs--
I hear the call of the singing firs
In the hush of the golden moon.

For many minutes we stood silently, leaning on the western rail of
the bridge as we watched the sunset across that beautiful little
basin of water known as Coal Harbor. I have always resented that
jarring, unattractive name, for years ago, when I first plied paddle
across the gunwale of a light little canoe, and idled about its
margin, I named the sheltered little cove the Lost Lagoon. This
was just to please my own fancy, for, as that perfect summer month
drifted on, the ever-restless tides left the harbor devoid of water
at my favorite canoeing hour, and my pet idling-place was lost for
many days--hence my fancy to call it the Lost Lagoon. But the
chief, Indian-like, immediately adopted the name, at least when he
spoke of the place to me, and, as we watched the sun slip behind the
rim of firs, he expressed the wish that his dug-out were here instead
of lying beached at the farther side of the park.

"If canoe was here, you and I we paddle close to shores all 'round
your Lost Lagoon: we make track just like half-moon. Then we paddle
under this bridge, and go channel between Deadman's Island and
park. Then 'round where cannon speak time at nine o'clock. Then
'cross Inlet to Indian side of Narrows."

I turned to look eastward, following in fancy the course he had