RIVER LIFE. 173 



does not progress according to the calculations of the cook, and a 

 short row down river is necessary to reach the wangun. 



Between the mouth of the Piscataquis and Oldtown, a distance 

 of twenty or twenty-five miles, are numerous beautiful islands, 

 some of them large, and generally covered with a heavy growth 

 of hard wood, among which the Elm abounds. "When the logs 

 arrive at this point, many of the encampments are fixed upon. 

 these islands. As the sun sinks behind the western hills, the 

 lengthened shadows of the beautiful island forests shoot across the 

 mirrored river, casting a deep shade, which soon disappears amid 

 the denser curtain of an advanced evening, with which they 

 blend. The roar of rushing waters is over, and the current glides 

 smoothly on. No sound is heard but the echo of the merry boat- 

 men's laugh, and of voices here and there on the river, with now 

 and then the shred of a song, and the creaking and plashing of 

 oars. While thus passing down, as the boats turn a sudden bend 

 in the river, a dozen lights gleam from the islands, throwing 

 their lengthened scintillations over the water. Now the ques- 

 tion goes round, "Which is our light?" "There's one on the 

 east side I" " Yes, and there's another on Sugar Island !" "And 

 there's one on Hemlock !" says a third. " Why the d — 1 hadn't 

 they gone to Bangor, and done with it?" "Wangun No. 1, 

 ahoy I" shouts the helmsman, a little exasperated with fatigue 

 and hunger. Now, while all the rest of the cooks remain silent, 

 No. 1 cook responds in turn. Another calls out the name of their 

 particular log-mark : " Blaze Belt, ahoy !" " Where in thunder 

 are you ?" " Blaze Belt, this way, this way I" comes echoing 

 from Hemlock Island, and away the Blaze Belt bateau rows with 

 its merry-making crew. Thus each crew, in turn, is finally con- 

 ducted to its respective camp-fire. 



The prospect of a release from the arduous labors on the drive 

 at this point of progress raises the thermometer of feeling, which 

 imparts a right merry interest to every thing. Like sailors 



