“Yes. My own foes are the sand-flies, what are called by the Indians ‘no-see-ums,’ and in Pennsylvania pungies. I brought a little smudge-pot and a small A-tent, just to give you shelter at need.” Meanwhile the poles rang ceaselessly, and the talk went on.
“I think, Pardy, the landscape under the water is almost as attractive as that above it. The stones seem to be all colors, and, I suppose, all shapes, because they play such queer tricks with the water. I never noticed until yesterday that when a wave rolls over a large, smooth rock it takes perfectly the form of a shell,—I think I mean a scallop-shell.”
“That is so, Rose. There, over there, is an example. I think it a very pretty idea,—one might be ingeniously poetical about it, but one won’t.”
By and by the stream stretched out shallow and broad, and the men took their paddles. Then they turned a sharp angle of the river and came among the burnt lands. Here and there a few great trees had strangely survived the fire, and towered high, green cones among the ruin.
“I can see no beauty in it,” said Rose.
“I said it was strange, interesting, and had certain beauties. Wait a little. Land us on the island, Tom,—at the upper end. There will be more air. There is a good bit of grass and a spring near by.”
Pretty soon the tent was up, and the smudge-pot, full of cedar bark, lighted. There was some wind, however, and the flies were not annoying.
“But what am I to sketch?”
“Let us sit in the opening of the tent. And now, my pipe. Let us first consider, Rosy, the eccentricities of these burnt trees. I want a sketch of some of them.”
“Why are they not black? I see very few that are charred.”