THE AMERICAN GRAYLING. 359 



must have a better camp-ground than this, and it's growing 

 late." 



The boy was rewarded and sent home ; the driver 

 instructed to meet us three days later with the team at a 

 given point some thirty miles below; the boat was launched 

 and stowed, and soon we were gliding down the swift, shallow 

 river, bending our gaze to the right and left, in search of a 

 camping-place. Rounding a bend, the current became 

 swifter, and soon we were rushing toward a gleam of foam 

 which seemed to stretch clear across the river. 



"Which way now?" 



"Right through that little slick patch ahead, and then 

 dodge to the right." 



Straight for the "little slick patch" we sped, and were 

 through it in an instant, just missing the ledges to port, 

 while the spray flashed over the bow, as short to the right 

 we turned, and dodging the bowlders that lay in wait, the 

 powerful sweeps of the paddles sent the good boat round the 

 rough point of a threatening reef, and away we went in the 

 whirling waves, down a slope of feathery foam. 



"Pretty good for an introduction that." 



"Yes. Wonder where we are going to camp?" said John. 

 "I want a Grayling for supper." 



"Can't tell yet," I replied; as, standing in the stern, I griped 

 more firmly my long Canadian paddle, and kept my eyes on 

 the channel straight before. Old Joe Le Clair had made 

 that paddle, and a better piece of timber never graced the 

 hand of a steersman. 



Swifter and swifter grew the current; the drooping 

 branches which brushed its surface were swept downward by 

 its force, and, laden with tufts of moss and leaves, splashed 

 in and out of the stream with a queer, jerky motion, as we 

 hurried past, while now and then, with plash and scream, a 

 water-fowl arose from the pools along the margin, and 

 flashed away through the sunlit leaves. 



