heavily timbered ridge, beyond which rise the higher hills. But directly
across from Auntie Sue's house, this ridge curves sharply toward the
stream; while less than a quarter of a mile below, a mighty mountain-arm
is thrust out from a shoulder of Schoolhouse Hill, as if to bar
the river's way. The high bluff thus formed is known to the natives
throughout all that region as Elbow Rock.

The quiet waters of The Bend move so gently on their broad course that
from the porch, looking up the stream, the eye could scarcely mark the
current. But in front of the little log house, where the restraining
banks of the river draw closer together, the lazy current awakens to
quickening movement. Looking down the stream, one could see the waters
leaving the broad and quiet reaches of The Bend above and rushing away
with fast increasing speed between the narrowing banks until, in all
their vicious might, they dashed full against the Elbow Rock cliff,
where, boiling and tossing in mad fury, they roared away at a right
angle and so around the point and on to another quiet stretch below. And
many were the tales of stirring adventure and tragic accident at this
dangerous point of the river's journey to the far-away sea. Skilled
rivermen, by holding their John-boats and canoes close to the far
shore, might run the rapids with safety. But no boat, once caught in the
vicious grip of the main current between the comparatively still waters
of The Bend and that wild, roaring tumult at Elbow Rock, had ever
survived.

It was nearing the close of a late summer day, and Auntie Sue, as was
her custom, stood on the porch watching the sunset. In the vast field of
sky that arched above the softly rounded hills there was not a cloud.
No wind stirred the leaves of the far-reaching forests, or marred
the bright waters of the quiet Bend that mirrored back the green,