"We did," he said,--"down in the reeds past Horseshoe Point. But it
was no use. He turned blue on me right away."

After which Mr. Gingham fell into such a deep reverie that the boat
had steamed another half mile down the lake before anybody broke the
silence again.

Talk of this sort,--and after all what more suitable for a day on the
water?--beguiled the way.


Down the lake, mile by mile over the calm water, steamed the Mariposa
Belle. They passed Poplar Point where the high sand-banks are with
all the swallows' nests in them, and Dean Drone and Dr. Gallagher
looked at them alternately through the binocular glasses, and it was
wonderful how plainly one could see the swallows and the banks and
the shrubs,--just as plainly as with the naked eye.

And a little further down they passed the Shingle Beach, and Dr.
Gallagher, who knew Canadian history, said to Dean Drone that it was
strange to think that Champlain had landed there with his French
explorers three hundred years ago; and Dean Drone, who didn't know
Canadian history, said it was stranger still to think that the hand
of the Almighty had piled up the hills and rocks long before that;
and Dr. Gallagher said it was wonderful how the French had found
their way through such a pathless wilderness; and Dean Drone said
that it was wonderful also to think that the Almighty had placed even
the smallest shrub in its appointed place. Dr. Gallagher said it
filled him with admiration. Dean Drone said it filled him with awe.