The clear water of the little river, in which the willows were mirrored
quiveringly, shallowed where a tiny bar of silver-white sand thrust the
ripples aside. Thus confined, the stream sulked for a moment in a deep,
pellucid pool, and then, with sudden rush and gurgle, swept through a
miniature narrows and swirled about the naked roots of the willows.
[Illustration: THE STREAM SULKED IN A DEEP, PELLUCID POOL.]
With a quick plunge of the paddle Ethan guided the canoe past the
threatening bar. A drooping branch swept his face caressingly as the
craft gained the quiet water beyond. Here, as though repentant of its
impatience, the river loitered and lapped about a massive granite
bowlder, tugging playfully at the swaying ferns and tossing scintillant
drops upon the velvety moss. To the left, the fringe of woodland which,
in friendly gossip, had followed the little river for a quarter of a
mile, parted where a second stream, scarcely more than a brook, flowed
placidly into the first. Reinforced, the river widened a little and
went slowly, musically on under the drooping branches, alternately
sun-splashed and shadowed, until it disappeared at a distant turn. But
the canoe did not follow. Instead it rocked lazily by the bowlder,
while the ripples broke gently against its smooth sides.
To the bole of an old willow which dropped its leaves in autumn upon
the white sand-bar was nailed a weather-gray board, on which faded
letters stated: