LOW—THE POOR INDIAN.
So hauling our canoes on shore we cast about for the most desirable spot.
There was no choice; it was an immense swamp in whatever direction we travelled. We sank almost to our knees in the moss and decayed underbrush. Once the Indian, floundering in the mud with our tent-poles, disappeared completely from sight, and we might have lost him, but the poles sticking up like bare flag-staffs through the dense brush which masked the marsh pools, disclosed the spot where he had sunk from view. When we dragged him out, he looked like a muskrat.
DEVELOPING A PLATE.
“Nichols is trying to discover an underground road to the Aroostook,” said Hiram. “Guess he’s given up all thought o’ usin’ that long paddle on them ’ere waters.”
This place proved the worst camping ground of the whole trip, but despite this fact it had its charms. The tourist soon grows to despise the consideration of personal comfort, when self-sacrifice is required to bring him in direct association with the nature which infatuates him. He becomes like the poet or painter, a creature purely spiritual, who raves in the rapture of exalted soul while his boots ship water by the gallon, while scarcely a rag hangs to his back, and low-dwindling provisions place him on rations intimate with starvation.
Thus it was with us. Our surroundings were unpleasant, but apart from this, as we saw them, interestingly picturesque.
TREES PILED ON TREES.