SPECKLED TROUT 105 



themselves quite at home. For over two hours the 

 floods came down. About four o'clock Orville, who 

 had not yet come from the day's sport, appeared. 

 To say Orville was wet is not much; he was better 

 than that, he had been washed and rinsed in at 

 least half a dozen waters, and the trout that he bore 

 dangling at the end of a string hardly knew that 

 they had been out of their proper element. 



But he brought welcome news. He had been 

 two or three miles down the creek, and had seen a 

 log building, whether house or stable he did not 

 know, but it had the appearance of having a good 

 roof, which was inducement enough for us instantly 

 to leave our present quarters. Our course lay along 

 an old wood-road, and much of the time we were to 

 our knees in water. The woods were literally flooded 

 everywhere. Every little rill and springlet ran like 

 a mill-tail, while the main stream rushed and roared, 

 foaming, leaping, lashing, its volume increased fifty 

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

 color, from the leachings 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 uprose 

 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. 



