156 FLY-FISHING IN MAINE LAKES. 



No retreat, now : a few sharp strokes of the pad- 

 dle, and a graceful turn brings us face to face with 

 the boiling, rushing flood, a pent-up lake, which, 

 caught and confined by the hand of man, is seek- 

 ing its outlet between two wooden walls not twenty 

 feet apart. 



On we are driven ; and now Joe guides our boat 

 of bark into the narrow opening. For an instant 

 the water beneath us is like burnished glass, and 

 but for an instant, for now we take a flying leap 

 into the caldron of yeasty foam. Our frail craft 

 shivers for a moment, as if stunned by the shock, 

 then rises buoyantly, uplifted by the swelling, rush- 

 ing, maddened waters, shoots out of the foam and 

 mist, and floats once more, with airy lightness, on 

 the pool below. 



u Well done, Joseph ! " went up from the shore ; 

 and, as soon as we are able to breathe freely, we 

 mingle our plaudits with those about us. 



" That's the easy part. Mr. Stevens : the work has 

 got to come. Shall we go ahead? " 



" By all means ! " said I ; for we were now in 

 for it, and nothing could stop us. 



" Then, don't either of you move an inch unless 

 the birch goes out from under you; don't look 

 ashore, look straight ahead, and don't speak to me 

 till we get into smooth water." 



