144 FLY-FISHING IN MAINE LAKES. 



with its out-buildings covers what was the best 

 camping-ground ; so that the white canvas of the 

 fisher's tents, with floating flags, so pretty a sight to 

 one coming down the lake, will in future be rarely 

 seen. 



Here we are at last at our journey's end ; and 

 now to getting into camp. We have two tents, one 

 with a fly for sleeping, and the other our mess-tent, 

 also a canvas canopy to protect our stove. 



Twelve miles of paddling in smooth water is play 

 for an Indian ; but now, Joe, you have got to do a 

 little work 



But Joe knows what to do first ; finds his axe, 

 leans on it a few minutes, strokes his chin, scratches 

 his head, looks at each point of the compass, sur- 

 veys the ground, gives us a bit of advice where to 

 pitch our tents, whistles, and disappears in the 

 woods close at hand. 



While the driver, "Son" Ripley, unloads, we 

 survey the ground, unroll the tents, and bring to 

 light our new camp-stove. Soon Joe returns, drag- 

 ging after him enough poles to establish a good- 

 sized hop-garden, and our work commences. 



But Toman's quick eyes have discovered the 

 stove, and he drops his axe, and goes down on all- 

 fours to interview it; he soon has it apart, and han- 

 dles every piece, from the lifter to the oven. 



