Come o’er the stream, Charlie,
And dine with McClain.”
As she listened and caught the wilder notes of Burnieboozle, they fell into the orchestral oppositions of the rapids, and died to the car amid the cry and crash and hoarse noises of the broken waters.
Rose saw the men rise and take their poles, and felt amidst the beautiful dim vision of white wave-crests how the frail canoe quivered as it was driven up the watery way.
Then they kept to the shore under the trees, the poles monotonously ringing, with ever around her, coming and going, that delicious odor of the spruce, richest after rain, which to smell in the winter, amid the roar of the city, brings to the wood-farer the homesickness of the distant forest. Her dreamy mood once broken was again disturbed by that rare speaker, the silent Polycarp.
“I smell camp.”
“What!” she said.
“Yes—very good smell—when bacon fry—smell him long away—two mile.”
“I smell it,” she said. “How strange!”
“Smell fry long way—smell baccy not so far. Smell Mr. Lyndsay pipe little while back.”