132 Trails to Woods and Waters 



call all the bull moose in the State of Maine 

 



right into our very camp. 



It was twilight of a wonderful day, late in 

 October. The funeral pyres of leaf and frond 

 blazed high upon the hilltops, and glowed 

 with rich deep red, low down in the quiet 

 valley. Along all the smaller watercourses 

 the sumac and soft maple glowed, while the 

 bright berries of the mountain ash occasion- 

 ally showed among the duller reds. 



A little later all this brilliant color would 

 fade. The leaves would first turn to yellows 

 and browns, then to grays, and finally they 

 would return to dust, making way for the 

 new buds. 



All day long we had been drifting down 

 the swift current of a wonderful stream in 

 northern Maine. Perhaps this stream was 

 no more wonderful than a thousand others 

 throughout the world, but it seemed wonder- 

 ful to me, for I was going with it on its im- 

 petuous errand, and I fell into all its moods. 

 When it ran swift and turbulent, my own 

 blood pulsed more freely. When it was deep 



