The night wind from the river, or from the open spaces of the wilds,
chills you after a time. You begin to think of your blankets. In a few
moments you roll yourself in their soft wool. Instantly it is morning.

And, strange to say, you have not to pay by going through the day
unrefreshed. You may feel like turning in at eight instead of nine, and
you may fall asleep with unusual promptitude, but your journey will
begin clear-headedly, proceed springily, and end with much in reserve.
No languor, no dull headache, no exhaustion, follows your experience.
For this once your two hours of sleep have been as effective as nine.




VI.

THE 'LUNGE.

"Do you know the chosen water where the ouananiche is waiting?"


Dick and I travelled in a fifteen-foot wooden canoe, with grub, duffel,
tent, and Deuce, the black-and-white setter dog. As a consequence we
were pretty well down toward the water-line, for we had not realized
that a wooden canoe would carry so little weight for its length in
comparison with a birch-bark. A good heavy sea we could ride--with
proper management and a little baling; but sloppy waves kept us busy.

Deuce did not like it at all. He was a dog old in the wisdom of
experience. It had taken him just twenty minutes to learn all about