A rough log cabin, with barn adjoining, and a few acres of cleared land constituted the farm of one Philip Painter. Here, as I was focussing the camera for a picture, a mother and three children gazed on me from the window, and viewed my operations with astonishment.
THE FIRST HOUSE ON THE AROOSTOOK RIVER.
But being still over one hundred miles from the end of our voyage, the tarry was of short duration.
The Colonel, however, in prowling about the farm, found time to fill his pockets with a quantity of small apples, no larger than nutmegs, and about as digestible. He distributed them among the party as we were returning to the boats, imagining that he had made a glorious capture.
“Splendid, aren’t they?” he said, as we began to munch them.
“Anything for a change from beaver stews,” I replied. “I feel that I could take to boot-leg cheerfully.”
A mile further on another farm appeared, perched upon a high bluff.
“We must take this place by storm!” cried the Colonel. “We must find a straight North American meal if we perish in the attempt,” and he led a gallant advance toward the farm house.
Mr. Botting, the proprietor of the place, appeared in answer to our hail and greeted us with a stare of open-eyed wonder. The first words he spoke were in company with a jerking action of his thumb toward the Tourograph.