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                                         69.
able to keep out the water which poured upon us, as if running from a faucet, through great holes in the flooring of the bridge. In fact we received the entire drainage of the bridge in addition to the water which drove in from the sides. Too tired to bother to chop into the hearts of trees to get dry wood, we [[deleted word]] ate the remnants of a box of crackers, rolled ourselves up in our wet blankets, and went to sleep wet and hungry – for even the fact that both feet, a hip, an arm, and a shoulder were wholly under water and our heads resting on soaked felt hats, could not keep us from sleeping.
   A trip such as ours is never monotonous. Contrasts are everywhere. No two days, no two nights are [[deleted word]] identical. Every stream, every lake, every island, every mountain; everyting is different.  At one moment you may be quietly paddling down Brown's Tract Inlet, the most winding stream on the American continent; at another, you may be shooting the rapids of the Raquette River, dodging the rocks jutting forth on every hand. One hour you may be gliding along the still surface of Forked Lake; at another, your little canoe may be being  tossed about by the white-capped waves of Long Lake, its nose ducking into them and coming out streaming with water, on the verge of tipping over any moment.  One evening you may be making camp on the eastern shore of a lake, watchingb a glorious sunset with piled up cumulus clouds painted by the sun's rays, a fire burning near you and cooking an apetising supper; another evening you may be going to bed after a day's paddle in the rain with everything wet and with nothing to eat but the last of a box of crackers. One night you may be resting peacefully on balsam boughs, the stars shining bright-