148 THE BEAVER RIVER WATERS. 



such as the reader has only dreamed of; but for my own 

 comfort and history's sake, I prefer to utter unpalatable 

 truths rather than to indulge in the fictions of fancy. It 

 was a solemn fact that we had made a mistake. We had 

 studied the almanac but not the signs of the peculiar season. 

 However, there was no sulky Achilles among us, :md in 

 the end we took the half loaf with philosophical cheerful- 

 ness. 



After a forenoon of suecexful fishing, my guide "John" 

 took me up the inlet. It is one of those dead, stagnant 

 streams which one finds now and then slowly winding 

 through a marsh. The alders and weed-, were brown and 

 dry, and everything was as cheerless and lonely as can be 

 imagined. As we silently and slowly crept up the wind 

 ing stream, watchful to detect the leap of the trout, the 

 stillness was almost oppressive. There was no bird or ani- 

 mal life to break the spell of desolation, except thesin-u 

 lar note of the bittern bearing the descriptive, popular name 

 of "the pile driver." The half dull, half resonant " ea 

 thug! catling!" ot its voice was occasionally heard, and 

 ..nee the bird, startled by our unsuspected approach, sprang 

 suddenly into the air. uttered a croaking "squawk" and 

 tlew heavily away. We lingered in this region of death 

 and silence as long as I could endure it, and then hastened 

 back to the sparkling waters of the lake, where our 

 could at least rest themselves on the green (lad islands and 

 mountains, and our ears welcomed again the gurgle and 

 murmur of the waters around the prow <>f our light and 

 swift-moving boat. 



