As we
sat, in the greyness of twilight, in front of our tents, a curious
sound came over the lake from the opposite shore, so like civilization
that it startled us for a moment. Here we were, fifty miles from a
house, away in the forest beyond the sound of anything savoring of
human agency, and yet we heard distinctly what was for all the world
like the blows of an axe or hammer upon a stake, driving it into the
earth. It had the peculiar ring, which any one will recognise who has
driven a stake into ground covered with water, by blows given by the
side instead of the head of an axe. These blows were given at
intervals so regular, that we all suspended smoking, certain that
there were other sportsmen beside ourselves in the neighborhood of
this lake.
"Who in the world is that?" asked Smith, of Martin, who seemed to
enjoy our astonishment.
"That," replied Martin, "is a gentleman known in these parts as the
'Pile-driver.' He visits all these lakes in the summer season, and
though, as a general thing, he travels alone, yet he sometimes has
half a dozen friends with him. If you'll listen a moment, may be
you'll find that he has a friend in the neighborhood now who will
drive a pile in another place."
Sure enough, in a moment the same ringing blows came from a reedy spot
in a different part of the bay.
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