CROSSING THE CARRY, 115 



and mud ; so here goes. What 's life to glory ? " I 

 exclaimed, as I seized the pork-bag, and dragged 

 it from under the boat ; " stand by and see me put 

 my armor on." 



Over my back I slung the provision-basket, 

 made like a fisherman's creel, thirty inches by 

 forty, filled with plates, coffee, salt, and aU the 

 impedimenta of camp and cooking utensils. This 

 was held in its place by straps passing over the 

 shoulders and imder the arms, like a Jew-pedler's 

 pack. There might have been eighty pounds 

 weight in it. Upon the top of the basket John 

 lashed my knapsack, full of bullets, powder, and 

 clothing. My rubber suit and heavy blanket, 

 slung around my neck by a leather thong, hung 

 down in front across my chest. On one shoulder, 

 the oars and paddles were balanced, with a frying- 

 pan and gridiron swinging from the blades ; on 

 the other was my rifle, from which were sus- 

 pended a pair of boots, my creel, a coffee-pot, and 

 a bag of flour. Taking up the bag of pork in one 

 hand, and seizing the stock of the rifle with the 

 other, from two fingers of which hung a tin ket- 

 tle of prepared trout, which we were loath to throw 

 away, I started. Picture a man so loaded, forcing 

 his way through a hemlock swamp, through whose 

 floor of thin moss he sank to his knees ; or pick- 

 ing his way across oozy sloughs on old roots, often 

 covered with mud and water, an<^ slippery beyond 



