I looked down, and there was the creel. I had not thought of him before, and it was plain that the canoe hadn’t either, for he exclaimed, in a tone of surprise:
“Who spoke? Oh, it was you, was it? Well, I don’t know just what Joe will do with you, for he never owned a creel before. He has always carried his dinner in his pocket when he went trouting, or in a basket if he went out on the lake after bass, and brought his fish home on a string; but he will find use for you, you may depend upon that. He is a busy boy, is Joe, and he keeps every body around him busy, too.”
“I understood you to say that you are the historian of the Wayring family,” I ventured to remark, when the canoe ceased speaking.
“Of the youngest branch of it—yes. I have been a member of this household for a long time. Can’t you see that I am a veteran? Don’t you notice my wounds? I have been snagged more times than I can remember, I have had holes punched in me by rocks, and some of my ribs have been fractured; but I am a pretty good boat yet. At least Joe thinks so, for he is going to take me somewhere this coming summer, probably up into Michigan to run the rapids of the Menominee; and, to tell you the honest truth, I am looking forward to that trip with fear and trembling. I have heard Uncle Joe say that those rapids were something to make a man’s hair stand on end; but if my master says ‘go’, I shall take him through if I can. I have carried him through some dangerous places, and whenever I have got him into trouble, it has been owing to his own carelessness or mismanagement.”
“I suppose he thinks a great deal of you?” said I.
“Well, he ought to,” replied the canoe, with a self-satisfied air. “I have stuck to him through thick and thin for a good many years. I was the very first plaything he owned, after he took it into his head that he was getting too big to ride a rocking-horse. He used to paddle me around on a duck pond, where the water wasn’t more than a foot deep, long before it was thought safe to trust him with a rod or gun. But Joe does not seem to care much for a gun. He is fairly carried away by his love of archery, and a long bow is his favorite weapon.”
“Do you know who Tom Bigden is, and what Joe has done to incur his ill-will?” I inquired.
“I have some slight acquaintance with that young gentleman,” answered the canoe, with a laugh. “It was through him that I was snagged and sunk in the Indian Lake country. I don’t know how the fuss started, and neither does any body except Tom Bigden himself; but I suppose that fellow over there and a few others like him, are wholly to blame for it.”
“What fellow? Over where?” I asked; for of course the canvas canoe could not point his finger or nod his head to tell me which way to look.
“This fellow up here,” said a new voice, which came from over the bookcase.