there was this difference: river-water could have been warmed gradually
by the contact of woolen clothes with the body, but the chill of
rain-water was constantly renewed.

Nor was there much comfort in the prospect when, weary and cold, they
finally drew their canoes ashore for the evening's camp. The forest was
dripping, the ground soggy, each separate twig and branch cold and
slippery to the hand. The accumulated water of a day showered down at
the slightest movement. A damp wind seemed to rise from the earth
itself.

Half measures or timid shrinkings would not do. Every one had to plunge
boldly into the woods, had to seize and drag forth, at whatever cost of
shower-bath the wilderness might levy, all the dead wood he could find.
Then the value of the birch-bark envelope about the powdery touch-wood
became evident. The fire, at first small and steamy, grew each instant.
Soon a dozen little blazes sprang up, only to be extinguished as soon as
they had partially dried the site of wigwams. Hot tea was swallowed
gratefully, duffel hung before the flames. Nobody dried completely, but
everybody steamed, and even in the pouring rain this little warmth was
comfort by force of contrast. The sleeping blankets were damp, the
clothes were damp, the ground was damp, the air was damp; but, after
all, discomfort is a little thing and a temporary, and can be borne. In
the retrospect it is nothing at all. Such is the indian's philosophy,
and that is why in a rain he generally travels instead of lying in camp.

The storm lasted four days. Then the wind shifted to the north, bringing
clearing skies.

Up to now the river had been swift in places, but always by dint of