"A good idea, Robert," said Willet. "Suppose you look first and see if
it's really a brook."

The lad returned in a moment or two with a verification. The water of
the little stream was clear, but it had a fine sandy bottom on which
footprints were effaced in a few seconds. They waded up it nearly a mile
until they came to stony ground, when they left the brook and walked on
the outcrop or detached stones a considerable distance, passing at last
through dense thickets into a tiny open space. They put the canoe down
in the center of the opening, which was circular, and stretched their
own bodies on the grass close to the bushes, through which they could
see without being seen.

"That trail is well hidden," said Willet, "or rather it's no trail at
all. It's just about as much trace as a bird leaves, flying through the
air."

"Do you know where we are, Dave?" asked Robert.

"We're not so far from the edge of the wilderness. Before long the land
will begin to slope down toward the St. Lawrence. But it's all wild
enough. The French settlements themselves don't go very far back from
the big river. And the St. Lawrence is a mighty stream, Robert. I reckon
there's not another such river on the globe. The Mississippi I suppose
is longer, and carries more volume to the sea, but the St. Lawrence is
full of clear water, Robert, think of that! Most all the other big
rivers of the world, I hear, are muddy and yellow, but the St. Lawrence,
being the overflow of the big lakes, is pure. Sometimes it's blue and
sometimes it's green, according to the sunlight or the lack of it, and