When Storms Raged 



Far away in the Maine woods there's an 

 old deserted logging road: it is first seen 

 starting from the water's edge of a magnifi- 

 cent lake, then skirting the hillside in crooked 

 bendings disappears from view. 



This was the pathway taken early in the 

 morning of a brilliant July day by the Angler 

 and his Indian guide. The guide carried the 

 canoe and the paddles. The Angler, strung 

 about with cooking utensils, followed. The 

 rods tied together he held in one hand; the 

 grub pail was firmly grasped in the other. 



The climb was an arduous one, but when 

 the summit was gained the reward caused 

 weariness to be forgotten. Such a dainty, 

 laughing, sparkling bit of water met the gaze 

 that its existence might be doubted for a 

 moment. 



The canoe being launched, it was paddled 

 slowly along the shore. At intervals good 

 sized trout were taken and they fought well. 

 Then it began to grow dark without almost 

 any warning. A thunderstorm appeared to be 

 near at hand. Curiously, while it was not 



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