50 LETTERS FROM THE BACKWOODS. 



heavenward, and we lay scattered around amid the 

 trees in delightful indolence. Already my system 

 began to rally in the presence of nature, and though 

 a miserable invalid, with the bronchitis to boot, I felt 

 that I could lay my head beneath the forest and sleep 

 without a fear. 



Mitchell had caught some trout — right noble ones 

 — and those, with the contents of our knapsacks, pro- 

 mised us a noble supper. The trout were rolled in 

 Indian meal, and fried in a little pan we had with 

 us, except a few that were spitted on long sticks, 

 that, with one end stuck in the ground, with the other 

 held their tempting burdens above the smoke and 

 flame. I split oif a new fresh chip for a plate on 

 which I spread my delicious trout, with a piece of 

 hot johnny-cake by his side, and, placing my back 

 against a stump, held him with one hand, while my 

 good hunting-knife peeled off his salmon-colored sides 

 in most tempting, delicious morsels. I ate with an 

 appetite and keen relish I had been a stranger to for 

 months, and then asked Mitchell if we could not get 

 a deer before going to bed. He said yes, if the wind 

 went down so that we could float them. This float- 

 ing deer I will describe in another place, for there 

 was no stirring out to-night. The wrathful little 

 swells came rushing furiously against the unoff'ending 

 beach, and the tall tree-tops swayed to and fro and 

 sighed in the blast, and our roughly-fanned fire threw 

 its sparks in swift eddies heavenward, and all was 

 wild, solemn, and almost fearful. No boat must 

 leave the beach to-night, and, so carefully loading 



