But after a few days the river ran clear, save for the occasional breaking of some "jam" above. Along the margin of the broad stream, however, there were here and there slight indentures, or notches, in the banks, where the ice had escaped the mad rush of waters and still clung in considerable patches.
It was upon one of these still undisturbed patches that "Jule" Fisher, a rough boy of fourteen, with several of his equally rough comrades, was playing on the lovely morning upon which my story opens.
These lads were not the sons of the steady, intelligent, church-going inhabitants of this quiet Northern hamlet, but were from the families of "lumbermen," "river-drivers" and "shingle-shavers." For some time they had been having boisterous sport, venturing out upon the extreme edges of the ice and with long poles pushing about the stray cakes which occasionally came within their reach.
At length they grew tired of this, and began to jump upon ticklish points of ice; and as these began to crack and show signs of breaking away, the boys would run, with wild whoops, back to shore, the very danger seeming to add to their enjoyment. Then, with poles and "prys," they would work upon the cracking mass until it floated clear and went whirling down the rapid current.
"Ahoy, boys!" called Jule, who was seemingly their leader. "Up yender's a big cake that only wants a shove! Come on! Let's set 'er a-going!"
No sooner said than done. Away went the noisy fellows to the projecting point of ice. A few smart jumps sent it creaking and groaning, as though still unwilling to quit its snug winter bed. One more jump, and the boys all ran with a shout beyond the place where the ice was cracking off—all save Jule.
It had not broken clear, and he was determined to set it going, when he would spring on the firm ice beyond, as he had done once or twice before.
But this time he was over-bold and not sufficiently watchful. A large cake of ice had come floating down the river unnoticed either by him or his friends, and striking the edge of the nearly loosened mass, shoved it out into the swift, black water.
Poor Jule! He ran quickly to the freshly-broken edge—but, alas! too late for the intended spring. The swiftly-rushing current had borne him many yards from the shore and from his companions.
There he stood—for an instant in dumb amaze—balancing himself upon his rocking raft with the pole he had been using. To attempt to swim ashore would have been useless. He was a clumsy swimmer at best; and the cold, rushing waters and floating ice cakes made swimming almost impossible.