CHAPTER VI.

RUNNING THE RAPIDS ON WEBSTER RIVER.

The stream issues from the lake with little force, being clogged above by a mass of logs, the remnants of various “booms.” As it passes downward in its course, heavy walls of rock, crowned by tall pines, arise on all sides, often darkening the waters and producing a cañon-like appearance of the surroundings.

The course of the river is over immense bowlders and ledges, often unobservable, just beneath the surface, while others in sight stand like sentinels in the middle of the stream, disputing one’s passage. The flow is repeatedly marked by beautiful falls and rapids, not high, but crowded together in narrow parts, which give greater expression and grandeur to the water, presenting at various points the most remarkable scenery in this section. Cascade succeeds cascade, ending often in an abrupt pitch of three to five feet, and at their base are dark boiling pools, flecked with snowy foam. The river has not great depth of water at any time, three to five feet on the average, but we were fortunate in the extra supply of the last week’s rain, which, although it prevented many “carries,” also increased the volume and force of water to that extent that made canoeing more hazardous, and filled our path with greater dangers.

The ladened birch canoes had passed us down the river, when the “Quartermaster” and the writer, bucklingtheir belts tighter about them, stepped lightly into the canvas canoe and swung out into the impetuous river, with feelings similar to what might be expected in one entering a battle.

My friend at the stern held a trusty paddle, whose strength had more than once been tried, while the writer, in a devotional attitude on a rubber blanket at the bow, held a long “setting pole” ready for duty at a moment’s notice. In half the time I have narrated the above, we were among the furious rapids, battling with their difficulties, and shouting to each other above the roar of the waters, how best to circumvent them. The sun, unfortunately, shone the greater part of the time in our faces, which produced a glimmer on the water, often preventing the discovery of sunken rocks. At one time, while dashing down a cascade, we mounted such a bowlder, and, swinging around, leaped a five-foot fall,stern first, much to our peril. Again, with mighty force we were hurled close to the rocky shore, which only a desperate use of the paddle prevented our striking.

At times we were obliged to hold the canoe in the middle of the stream by the long “setting poles,” firmly planted in the bottom, while we made our decision regarding the better of two channels, the dangers of which there was little choice, then on we went through the rush of waters,our “setting poles” keeping time with our eyes, noting the sunken rocks by the water’s upheaval, avoiding this sharp ledge, or that rough bowlder, or swinging into the foam of another as we shot swiftly by.

Often with ease we thought to pass a distant rock, but mistaking the velocity of the water, doubled it by a hair’s breadth. One fall over which the guides hadledtheir canoes, we amateurs passed in thecanvascanoe, the water falling in spray about us, but the cheer for our bravery with which we were greeted at its base, paid us well for the risk incurred.

LUNCH TIME ON WEBSTER STREAM.

At “Pine Knoll” we were obliged to let our canoes over the falls by long ropes from the cliffs above, and at another, soon after, two of the guides, Weller and Morris, passed safely in our canvas boat, on account of its slight draft of water, although they carried the birch canoesaround. So we continued our rapid progress down the stream, running most of the falls, our boat conforming to each situation, and almost seeming a part of us, and taking an interest in our exploits. At noon we stopped for an hour’s rest and lunch on the right bank of the stream, and while disposing of hard tack, canned corned beef, and coffee, our artist plied his profession, and then on we went through other perils.

It was fearfully fascinating, as our four canoes, following each other’s lead, dashed onward through dangers which we could hardly anticipate before they were passed, only to be repeated and repeated at every mile of the stream. But the stimulant to one’s feelings gave strength and courage and even recklessness, which, in the wild surroundings, made one feel as if no danger was too great to dare. An hour after our tarry for lunch, we entered the deep and narrow chasm of swift, dark water above Grand Falls, and swinging our canoe into an eddy on the left, under the shadows of a great rock (some five hundred feet high), we stepped out on the shore, having completed the excitements of a half-day that many years will fail to erase.

Our canoes had suffered less than we had anticipated. A sharp rock had left its mark on Bowley’s birch, which the application of rosin and grease soon rectified. Thebottom of the canvas boat had two small cuts about midships, so the use of needle and thread became necessary, the “Quartermaster” andcompagnon-du-voyage, choosing for theirmodus operandidifferent sides of the canoe, putting the needle back and forth with iron pliers.

IT’S NOT ALL POETRY.

A few moments’ rest, and while the guides were “sacking” the camp kit across “Indian carry,” three-quarters of a mile to the East Branch (at right angles with Webster stream), we gathered up the artist’s camera and plates, and pushed forward to examine the picturesque beauties of Grand Falls, and catch all we could while the light lasted.

Grand Falls is from forty to fifty feet high, seventyfeet wide, surrounded on all sides, for half a mile, by ledges of iron-colored rocks of nearly the same height, which decrease in altitude as they near the Penobscot River below. From a point beneath, the scene is grand in its somber magnificence, as the swift torrent, striking midway upon a projecting ledge in the center of the fall, rebounds in foam flakes, which, after the momentary interruption, continue to fall into the dark whirlpool of water below.

We place the tripod upon a prominent ledge, and, mounting the camera, our artist prepares the plates in his mysterious cloth-covered box or “dark room,” while we further exclude the light by covering him with our rubber blankets. But the mist and spray blinds us, and we are obliged to gather up the camera and retreat to another ledge before we can operate.

The water, of a dark reddish hue, in strong contrast with the snowy foam, circles around and around in the eddies, kissing the rocks on all sides in its whirl, and, amid the roar of the fall, goes dashing on for about four hundred feet, and then plunges over a “rolling dam” on its course to the Penobscot, making canoeing the balance of the distance on this river impossible.

GRAND FALLS—WEBSTER RIVER.

The light from above, reflecting on the cliff above the fall, glancing with rich beauty on rock and cascade, thefantastic growth of trees on every ledge, make up a fascinating charm that each succeeding picture varies in detail, but which pertains with almost equal force to every part of the entire chasm. While our artist was at work, we busied ourselves gathering the luscious blue and blackberries, and scarlet wintergreen berries which grew in profusion around us; they were of great size, the average blueberry being an inch, and the wintergreen berries an inch and a half in circumference—measurement being taken at the time on the spot.

After filling a three-quart pail with berries, we divided the artist’s “kit” among us, found the “carry,” and pressed on to camp, to which place our guides had preceded us with tent and canoes.

Supper ended, we again sought the river’s bank, a mile below the falls at a place called “the Arches,” where, in the radiance of a gorgeous sunset, we again drank to our fill of this picturesque locality. Words fail to describe the beauties of this scene, with which even the guides, slow to recognize the attractiveness of nature, were enraptured.

“O Nature, how in every charm supreme!Whose votaries feast on raptures ever new!O for the voice and fire of seraphim,To sing thy glories with devotion due!”

“O Nature, how in every charm supreme!

Whose votaries feast on raptures ever new!

O for the voice and fire of seraphim,

To sing thy glories with devotion due!”

Around the big camp-fire that night, each narrated his individual experience of the day’s adventures, and the hair-breadth escapes in running the rapids.

“But,” says Bowley, the guide, “you should accompany the lumbermen ‘on the drive,’ and see the perils they run while starting a ‘jam’ on these rivers. Often the logs are piled one upon another, until it seems as if nothing but an avalanche would start them. But one log is loosened, and then another, and another, and in a moment the whole mass goes sweeping down stream with terrific force, and woe betide the unlucky ‘driver’ in its path.”

From the first of the trip to this moment, the guides had failed to praise the working of the canvas canoe, as it came in competition with their birch barks. But this day’s trial proved beyond question its qualities, and wrung from them an acknowledgment they were not slow to utter.

“It was fun to watch you, gentlemen,” says Morris, to the Quartermaster and myself, as we sat drying ourselves before the fire, “you came over the ‘rips’ like a perfect duck. I don’t believe you could drown the craft if you tried.” While the French Canadian, Weller, taking the pipe from his mouth, ejaculated, “Ma fois!she goes over the falls like a chain over a log!”

STARTING A BOOM.

On Thursday, August 21st, we wet our canoes for the first time in the East Branch of the Penobscot river, although from Chamberlin lake to this point it is strictly a part of the same stream under different names.

A BOOM.

The river at this spot is only about fifteen feet wide, very deep, with long meadow grass lapping and fringing its border, and flowing with the rapidity of a mill course, each bubble as it shot by seeming to have an individuality of purpose, which to the writer was very amusing.

Hardly had we dropped into our accustomed positions in the canoes before we were swept away from the bank, past the tall alders, and darted with lightning speed down the river a mile and a half and out on to the placid Matagamonsis lake. This was one of the loveliest bodies of water on our course, dotted with small islands and far-reaching points of shore, the tall Norway pines forming a wall of beauty on either side.

The lake is about one mile wide and four long, and the spruce-covered tops of Traveler mountains to the southwest are reflected in its mirror-like surface. From the top of a bold crag at its foot we stopped for a sketch of the lake, and then passed downward through the sluggish stream of three miles which connects it with Matagamon or Grand lake.

To the left or east of this stream, and half way between these lakes, is another lake about two miles in extent, which we fail to find noticed on any map we have seen, and lies in close proximity to “Hay creek,” but is not what is termed in this section “a logan.” (See Introduction, page 15.)

Half a mile from this lake, the stream passes under a foot bridge, which leads to a farm on Trout Brook stream, the first loggers’ camp since leaving Chamberlin farm, a distance of over seventy-five miles.

DISCOVERY OF A NEW LAKE.

This farm, owned by E. S. Coe, Esq., of Bangor, consists of four houses built close together, and eight or ten barns, with about four hundred acres of cleared land, through which flows the swift-running trout brook. Half a dozen batteaux lay turned over on the grass, bounteous crops of oats and potatoes were ripening in the fields, while the industrious chicken (evidence of civilization) was picking about the doors.

Matagamonsis Lake.

The house where our party dined was occupied by a man and his wife and one small boy. The rooms to this house were low and smoky, like all the rest we had seen, with the big iron box stove in the center; the only changefrom the usual wall decoration was perceived in an advertisement of Pinafore opera music, which, pasted beside the other illustrations, made us feel quite homesick.

After dinner at the house, our party bade our new-found friends adieu, and paddled down the Thoroughfare into Grand or Matagamon lake, which is about one-third longer than Lake Matagamonsis, and went into camp at its foot, on the right bank, near another old dam.

The eastern shore of this lake (the largest body of water on our course since leaving Chamberlin lake) is not especially attractive to the artist, being low and covered with meadow grass. But the western is decidedly picturesque, being bold and rocky, which, climbing from elevation to elevation, finally culminates in the precipitous and rugged peak of Matagamon mountain, towering above one’s head to the height of six hundred feet, and is almost divested of foliage. We halted but one night on this lake, but were well rewarded by the number and size of the fine trout captured, adding also to our creel a small salmon.

OUR SALMON.

MATAGAMON OR GRAND LAKE.

“By viewing nature, Nature’s handmaid, art,Makes mighty things from small beginnings grow.Thus, fishes first to shipping did impartTheir tail the rudder, and their head the prow.”

“By viewing nature, Nature’s handmaid, art,

Makes mighty things from small beginnings grow.

Thus, fishes first to shipping did impart

Their tail the rudder, and their head the prow.”

DANGER OF WANDERING FROM CAMP.—AN EXPERIENCE ON LAKE SUPERIOR.—THE FALLS OF THE EAST BRANCH.—STAIR FALLS.—INCIDENTS OF CAMP LIFE.—AN ENCHANTED BOWER.—HUNT’S FARM.—AN ARTIST’S CANOE.—THE ASCENT OF HUNT’S MOUNTAIN.—A REVERIE.—WHETSTONE FALLS.—DISCOVERY OF JASPER ON LEDGE FALLS.—DAWN OF CIVILIZATION.—MATTAWAMKEAG.—THE EAST BRANCH CANVAS-ED.

I oftenthought how easily one could stray from camp, and, if without a compass, be lost in this wilderness. While hunting on Lake Superior one autumn, some years since, I endured such an experience, and the bitterness of it has always remained fresh in my memory. While passing over the corduroy road of thirteen and a halfmiles which lies between the town of Ontonagon, Mich., and the Minnesota copper mines, my attention was allured from the road by the melodious whir-r-r-r, whir-r-r-r of a brace of partridges. Stepping aside into the thicket, I followed as fast as possible the retreating sound, and after a tedious tramp through briers and swamp I finally brought them to bag. In the excitement of the chase, I had given little or no heed to the path, or to the clouds that were fast gathering overhead.

Starting back in the direction I supposed the road, I traveled, it seemed to me, double the distance that would have revealed it, but no familiar path did I find. In fact, I was amazed in discovering that I was back on the same ground on which I had started. There was no reason in the thing,—no reasoning against it. The points of the compass had been as clear in my head as if I saw the needle, but the moment I was back, all seemed to be wrong. The sun, which occasionally revealed itself, shone out of the wrong part of the heavens. I climbed one of the tall trees, but the very stillness of the landscape on which I gazed seemed to mock me.

I was not a novice in woodcraft, and could follow a trail readily. I examined the bark of the trees to see which side was the roughest, and then, singling out a number, judged of the points of the compass by the waythe majority leaned, and plunging into the thicket made another and another attempt.

I well knew the danger of losing my self-control, and, sitting down on a log, I covered my face with my hands and waited until I felt calm and self-possessed again. I have no idea how long it was, but when I arose the sun was nearly obliterated by the clouds, which soon began to discharge their contents in sympathy for my ill luck, and to reach my destination I must make all speed.

I immediately struck a “bee line” in the direction which my reveries had designated as the right path, blazing the trees with my hunting-knife as I hastened along. Soon I espied an opening, and, dashing onward, what was my joy to find the old corduroy road, which never looked more welcome in its life.

From Grand lake to the junction of the East with the West branch of the Penobscot it is sixty to seventy-five miles, the river being shut in on all sides by lofty mountains, or heavy belts of grand old forests, through which the swift river tumbles, with only an occasional suggestion of the lumberman’s axe.

There are eleven conspicuous falls in this interval, varying from twenty to sixty feet in height, while the charming cascades are too numerous to mention. The abrupt descents bear the names of Stair, Haskell Rock,Grand, Pond Pitch, Hulling Machine, Bowling, Spring Brook Gravel Bed, Whetstone, Grindstone, Crowfoot, and Ledge Falls, their names, in many cases, suggesting their wild and rugged formation.

ON THE EAST BRANCH.

The water swept so swiftly through this section that with the exception of the last twenty miles it was hardly necessary to use our paddles, but, keeping an eye to the rocks in our path; we could silently enjoy the many lovely changes constantly opening in the landscape.

But this also was decidedly the hardest part of the entire excursion.—At most of these falls, our whole camp equipage, provisions, and canoes had to be “sacked” around the falls from one to two miles, and in many cases there was hard climbing along the steep, rocky sides of the mountainswhich followed the river’s course, while each one of us carried his portion of the load.

For two and a half miles after leaving Grand lake one is constantly reminded of the day’s experience on Webster stream by the furious rapids, and we were again obliged to call into action our “setting poles.” In a drenching rain, we were twice compelled to land on the shore, take the canvas boat into our laps and sew the cuts in its surface, laughing at the philosophical manner with which we submitted to the circumstance.

Along the river’s bank to the west, for many miles, are the lovely Traveler mountains, whose rambling appearance and daily companionship are fully represented by their name.

Stair Falls the “Quartermaster” and myself ran in our canvas canoe, but the guides, tending their birches as if they were glass, dropped them from step to step by means of ropes.

DROPPING CANOES OVER THE FALLS.

This fall or cascade is a series of steps or stairs some five in number, each about three feet high and ten feet apart, the best passage being through the channel near the left bank. It is a very choice bit of scenery, and one that any artist would greatly desire to transfer to canvas and work into endless variety of composition. A ten-mile passage of the swift river, and we reached Grandfalls, which, although higher than its namesake on Webster river, being followed immediately by numerous cataracts did not so impress one.

Here we were obliged to make a portage of three-fourths of a mile through the dense woods to the foot of the falls, and, in a heavy shower, went into camp on the opposite shore. To the “camper-out” a rainy day in the woods is among the most disagreeable experiences, even under a tight tent, with good company and plenty of amusement. But the difficulties increase by being forced to be out in the storm, and to leave your canoe at a portage and obliged to carry on your back through mud and mire all your camp effects.

ACCEPTING THE SITUATION.

Through the woods you stumble, pressing the wet branches aside, which in their recoil push away your rubber clothing, from which the buttons are fast disappearing and the rents appearing, and whose special protection is sadly deficient, until the repetition of such circumstances as thoroughly drenches you as if you hadbeen without them. The water is dripping from off your hat to your neck and rolling down your back in icy rills. The position of your arms in carrying your “kit” is such as to lead a looker-on to imagine you are striving hard to fill your sleeves with the rain, which you know is a mistake, but there is no help for it. You clutch tightly to your rifle as your pack begins to slip, striving to keep the locks from the rain, while your boots have been innocently occupied in catching every scanty drop which fell from your clothing, and you have every appearance, if not the feeling, of the oft-quoted “drowned rat.” You would not have your wife, or other friend, see you at this moment for anything. How they would laugh, and hurl at you many of your pet quotations regarding the “poetry, pleasure, and romance of life in the woods,” until you had rather endure another storm than their irony.

Then comes the raising of the wet tent into position, the repeated attempts to start the fire, and the holding of every individual fir branch in the flame to dry before performing the duty of bed.

Two forked sticks with one across are placed before the fire, and on them you hang boots, socks, blankets, and other articles of your belongings, and, while the guides are cleaning your guns, you examine the provision boxes to see if they have escaped the drenching.

It is amusing how stoical and indifferent one grows to these circumstances in the woods, and soon makes but little of them, retaining as serene and unruffled a disposition as if they were of no account, while after a warm supper and a social pipe they pass from memory.

Stair Falls

I will not weary the reader by a description of the passage of each fall from day to day on our route, some of which we ran, and past others we “carried,” letting the canoes, as before, over the difficulties by long ropes from the cliffs above. After passing Spring Brook Gravel Bed Falls, we paddled through a mile or two ofheavy “rips” and entered some two miles of “dead water.”

Hulling Machine Falls.

On turning a beautiful bend in the river, what was our surprise to observe the rugged growth of pines gradually disappear, and the landscape immediately softened by the introduction of a dense forest of maple, elm, ash, and noble oak trees, whose gnarled trunks pushed themselves far into the stream, their branches overlocking above our heads and forming a canopy that darkened the water.

THE ARCHES.East Branch of the Penobscot River.

THE ARCHES.

East Branch of the Penobscot River.

Exclamations of surprise rang from our lips as all thecanoes in “Indian file” drifted through this enchanting bower, and we thought to ourselves, if in the quiet dress of summer this is so lovely, what must it be when robed in autumnal foliage.

Passing the mouth of Big and Little Seboois rivers, we pitched our tent on the left bank of the river near a place known as Hunt’s Farm.

The solitary log house and barn on Hunt’s farm were erected some forty-three years ago, and are located on high ground in a picturesque bend of the Penobscot river.

The house outside is painted red, white-washed inside, with low ceilings similar to the others mentioned. In addition to the cultivation of land near the house, an attempt was made some seasons ago to press into tillage, as a melon patch, the side of an adjacent mountain, but the fruit, as soon as it grew heavy and ripened, snapped its hold on the vines, rolled down the mountain side, and was crushed at its base. As can easily be seen, this elevated farm was not a success, and now only the bright green foliage of a fresh growth of trees is left to tell the melancholy story. Mr. Dunn, who, assisted by three other persons, takes care of the place, showed us many attentions, supplying us with fresh milk and sugar, and other delicacies that had been foreign to our fare at camp for many days.

The manufacture of birch canoes seemed to be one ofthe industries of the place, an immense one being then in process of building for the celebrated New York artist, Frederick E. Church, Esq. This canoe was twenty-eight feet long, over four feet wide (midships), and when completed would weigh three hundred pounds.

The artist has recently purchased four hundred acres of land on Milinokett Lake, fifteen miles distant, a tributary to the West Branch of the Penobscot River, one of the prettiest sheets of water in that vicinity. A fine view of Mount Katahdin can be had from this spot, and men were to leave this farm the following day to erect three substantial log camps.

Hunt’s Farm.

MOUNT KATAHDIN.Study by F. E. Church.

MOUNT KATAHDIN.

Study by F. E. Church.

The ascension of Mount Katahdin can with little difficulty be made from Hunt’s farm, where a convenient ride on horseback lands one within two miles of its top. I shall not soon forget the climb of Hunt’s Mountain, about twelve hundred feet high, opposite our camp, or the magnificent view from its peak.

With Mr. Dunn as guide, in company with the “Quartermaster,” I started to make the ascent on the morning of August 24th. To clamber up the steep side of a mountain in the dense wilderness is an entirely different undertaking from the following of a “bridal path” to the top of Mount Washington. Cutting stout poles seven feet in length, we set off up the mountain side, catching half glimpses of the landscape below, as we swung from tree to tree and rock to rock, which latter had been made extra slippery by a recent shower, and, after two hours of laborious climbing, gained the bare but welcome crags at the top. The first sensation of the prospect from the summit is simply of immensity. The eye sweeps the vast spaces that are bounded only by the haze of distance, overlooking one vast undulating sea of forest trees, which seemed to come rolling in to the mountain’s base, with only here and there the glimmer of a lake or stream, and little to break the vision save the farm at our feet, where we could just distinguish the white canvas of our camp. Tothe left stretch successive ranges of hills and mountains, and at their base could be had momentary glimpses of the windings of the West Branch of the Penobscot, while to our right was its twin brother, the East Branch, over which we had so recently passed, its misty falls and cascades subdued to a level with the surrounding landscape. These two streams sweep away to the south twenty miles, and unite in unbroken union at Medway, on their way to the sea.

Junction East and West Branches Penobscot.

Before me arose the cloud-capped peak of Mount Katahdin, 5,385 feet high, Wasataquoik Mountain, 5,245 feet high, the lofty Traveler and Sourdnahunk mountains,which, with the exception of the first, are wooded to their summits. Broad seams, or slides, are visible along the surface of old Katahdin, which, with its triple-peaked outline, seemed to look down into the valleys with a fatherly interest, while “the whispering air sent inspiration from the mountain heights.”

The thunder clouds had just parted, and a beautiful rainbow arched the heavens, shedding its colors on the glistening outlines of the valley and mountain. Oh, that we might be left alone for hours, to watch the changes of the landscape and hear the secret voice and dread revelations of these magnificent mountains!

There are thoughts, deep and holy, which float through one’s mind, as, gazing down upon such a scene, one contrasts the smallness of man with the magnitude of God’s works, and in the weird silence contemplates the perishable of this world with “the everlasting hills.”

After such a prospect of the East Branch and vicinity, it almost seems as if we ought to bid adieu to this enchanting river of our narrative, but if the future tourist shall desire to make its acquaintance, I would like to guide him safely over four other remarkable falls to his journey’s end at Mattawamkeag, thirty-two miles below.

Two miles from Hunt’s farm, we came to what is known as Whetstone Falls, a series of high, picturesquecascades. Here we made a short portage on the right-hand side of the stream, then shot across and down a very steep pitch of the water close to the left bank, and landed a portion of our baggage which we carried to a point below. Then the guides ran the heavier part of the falls, and, after passing the quick boiling water at their foot, rounded to the shore and re-loaded the camp kit which we had “sacked” over the ledges at the river’s bank. Then we passed, without accident, Grindstone and Crowfoot Falls, each from ten to twenty feet high, the name of the former being so suggestive by its geological formation that the “Quartermaster” declared that he could honestly see the indentation of the axle. Another camp seven miles from Medway, and in the morning we passed Ledge Falls, which, although the last of the pitches on the East Branch, was none the less interesting.

We passengers, to lighten the canvas, strolled along the shore, gathering bright flowers and curious colored stones, while the guides alone in their canoes ran the cataract, meeting us in the “dead water” below. These falls are composed of slate of a grayish color, which, after the first steep pitch form into numerous cascades, produced by the sharp ridges of rock, which, extending out into the stream from both shores, decrease in height as they approach the center.

GLIMPSES OF CIVILIZATION BEGIN TO DAWN.

A dark red stone attracted my attention, and I waded into the water to secure it, and on regaining the canoe soon after, threw it into my camp-bag, little dreaming of the value of my prize. On reaching home it was examined by an old and experienced lapidary, and proved to be ajasperof exquisite grain and color.

A portion of the stone, as an article of jewelry, incrusted with the magic words “Ledge Falls,” is highly prized and now worn as a souvenir by the writer.

The stream now gradually widens, with strong but noiseless flow; the mountains retire, and the banks of the river are for the most part bordered by foot-hills and grassy knolls. Glimpses of civilization begin to dawn as we occasionally pass a log house whose lonesome appearance is only relieved by the happy faces of children at the door. Corn-fields wave their tall stems, while broad patches of potatoes (for which Maine is justly celebrated) flourish here surprisingly. It is a sudden change from the forest’s depths, after a month’s camp life, and seems to urge us towards home more and more rapidly.

We are soon at Medway, the junction of the East and West Branches, (a small town on the left bank of the Penobscot River, of about four hundred inhabitants,) and are speeding faster and faster through the broad river to Mattawamkeag on the European and North American railroad.

We have followed the river in its devious windings, from a width of fifteen to now an expansion of over five hundred feet.

We have felt the mysterious silence of the wilderness at early morn, or as the twilight lessened and the shadows deepened about the camp, only broken by the chirp ofthe cricket, or the weird and plaintive cry of the loons on the lake.

Our tour has been one of daily excitement, filled from first to last with grand old forests, noble waterfalls, picturesque lakes, and cascades. A region in which an artist might linger many weeks with profit to both eye and brush, while the recuperation to one’s health by the out-door life in the dry atmosphere cannot be overestimated.

Springing ashore, we unjoint our rods, pack up the camera, collapse the canvas canoe, and with hearts full of thanks to the kind Providence which has watched over our two hundred mile voyage, we bid adieu to our guides, as we do now to the reader.

NET RESULTS.

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