IN THE CATSKILLS 



floods came down. About four o'clock Orville, who 

 had not yet come from the day's sport, appeared. 

 To say Orville was wet is not much; he was better 

 than that, he had been washed and rinsed in at 

 least half a dozen waters, and the trout that he bore 

 dangling at the end of a string hardly knew that 

 they had been out of their proper element. 



But he brought welcome news. He had been 

 two or three miles down the creek, and had seen a 

 log building, whether house or stable he did not 

 know, but it had the appearance of having a good 

 roof, which was inducement enough for us instantly 

 to leave our present quarters. Our course lay along 

 an old wood-road, and much of the tune we were 

 to our knees in water. The woods were literally 

 flooded everywhere. Every little rill and springlet 

 ran like a mill-tail, while the main stream rushed 

 and roared, foaming, leaping, lashing, its volume 

 increased fifty-fold. The water was not roily, but 

 of a rich coffee-color, from the leachings of the 

 woods. No more trout for the next three days ! we 

 thought, as we looked upon the rampant stream. 



After we had labored and floundered along for 

 about an hour, the road turned to the left, and in a 

 little stumpy clearing near the creek a gable uprose 

 on our view. It did not prove to be just such a 

 place as poets love to contemplate. It required a 

 greater effort of the imagination than any of us 

 were then capable of to believe it had ever been a 

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