AN INDIAN S THOUGHTFULNESS. 165 



swarthy Indian stretched on the leaves, with the trout 

 nodding above him, as he slowly stripped away 

 the flesh, furnished a picture I should like to have 

 taken. 



After breakfast we had no dishes or forks to clean, 

 but throwing them both away, wiped our knives on a 

 chip, and in a moment were ready for a start. It was 

 Saturday, and the heavens which had been so clear 

 the night before, now began to gather blackness — 

 the burdened wind moaned through the forest, or went 

 sobbing over the lake that was every moment fretting 

 itself into greater excitement, and everything be- 

 tokened a gloomy and tempestuous day. We w r ere 

 fourteen miles from a human habitation ; and though I 

 expected that day to have gone thirty miles farther 

 into the forest and spent the Sabbath, the storm that 

 was approaching made the shelter of a log cabin seem 

 too inviting, and I changed my mind. But to row 

 fourteen miles against a head wind and sea was no 

 child's play, and for one I resolved not to do it. So, 

 making a bargain with Mitchell, the Indian, I wrap- 

 ped my oil-skin cape about me, and laying my rifle 

 across my lap, ensconced myself in the stern of the 

 boat, and made up my mind to a drencher. The 



