"_through hollow lands and hilly lands_"--
idly where the vale spreads out, quickly where the hills close in; black
and mysterious in the deep places, frank and golden in the shoal. In one
romantic open, where the stream flows thinly over a long stretch of
sand, the bed is of an almost luminous amber, as if its particles had
imprisoned a little of the sunlight that had fallen on them through the
unnumbered years.
The River was somewhat low when I dipped paddle in it, and the ooze at
the marge was a continuous chronicle of woodland life. Moose and deer,
bear and beaver, mink and fisher, all the creatures of the wild had
contributed to the narrative. Even the water had its tale: a line of
bubbles would show that a large animal, likely a moose, had crossed a
few minutes before our canoes rounded the bend. There were glimpses of
less wary game: ducks and herons set sail at the last moment, and
partridges, perching close at hand, cocked their foolish heads as we
went by; two otters sported on a bit of beach; trout leaped every rod
of the way.
And never a sign of man or mark of man's destructiveness; nor axe nor
fire had harmed a single tree. A journey of unmarred delight through a
valley of unending green.