122 SPECKLED TROUT. 



foaming, leaping, lashing, its volume increased fifty- 

 fold. The water was not roily, but of a rich coffee- 

 color, from the leechings of the woods. No more 

 trout for the next three days ! we thought as we 

 looked upon the rampant stream. 



After we had labored and floundered along for 

 about an hour, the road turned to the left, and in 

 a little stumpy clearing near the creek a gable up- 

 rose on our view. It did not prove to be just such 

 a place as poets love to contemplate. It required a 

 greater effort of the imagination than any of us were 

 then capable of, to believe it had ever been a favorite 

 resort of wood-nymphs or sylvan deities. It savored 

 rather of the equine and the bovine. The bark-men 

 had kept their teams there, horses on the one side 

 and oxen on the other, and no Hercules had ever 

 done duty in cleansing the stables. But there was a 

 dry loft overhead with some straw, where we might 

 get some sleep, in spite of the rain and the midges ; 

 a double layer of boards, standing at a very acute an- 

 gle, would keep off the former, while the mingled ref- 

 use hay and muck beneath would nurse a smoke that 

 would prove a thorough protection against the latter. 

 And then, when Jim, the two-handed, mounting the 

 trunk of a prostrate maple near by, had severed it 

 thrice with easy and familiar stroke, and, rolling the 

 logs in front of the shanty, had kindled a fire, which, 

 getting the better of the dampness, soon cast a bright 

 glow over all, shedding warmth and light even into 

 the dingy stable, I consented to unsling my knapsack 



