Umbagog, — certainly the American Indians were the Lost Tribes, and conserved the old familiar syllables in their new home.
Rowing into the damp breeze, we by and by traversed the lake. We had gained nothing but a fact of distance. But here was to be an interlude of interest. The “thoro’fare” linking Umbagog to its next neighbor is no thoro’fare for a bateau, since a bateau cannot climb through breakers over boulders. We must make a “carry,” an actual portage, such as in all chronicles of pioneer voyages strike like the excitement of rapids into the monotonous course of easy descent. Another boat was ready on the next lake, but our chattels must go three miles through the woods. Yes, we now were to achieve a portage. Consider it, blasé friend, — was not this sensation alone worth the trip?
The worthy lumbermen, and our supernumerary, the damster’s son, staggered along slowly with our traps. Iglesias and I, having nothing to carry, enjoyed the carry. We lounged along through the glades, now sunny for the moment, and dallied with raspberries and blueberries, finer than any ever seen. The latter henceforth began to impurple our blood. Maine is lusciously carpeted with them.
As we oozed along the overgrown trail, dripping still with last night’s rain, drops would alight upon our necks and trickle down our backs. A wet spine excites hunger, — if a pedestrian on a portage,
