When we got to him, he was dead. He was a fine two year old
buck, with spike horns, and in excellent condition. We took his saddle
and skin and passed on.
From Bound Pond we rowed up the inlet, a broad and sluggish stream,
full of grass and lily pads, to Little Tapper's Lake. We saw several
deer feeding along the shore that, discovering us as we rowed
carelessly along, went whistling and snorting away into the forest. As
we approached the lake, dark clouds gathered in the West; great ugly
looking thunderheads came rolling up from behind the hills higher and
higher; perfect stillness was all around us; the leaves were moveless
on the trees, and the voices of the birds were hushed.
"Squire," said Martin to me "I'm thinkin' we'd better go ashore and
put up our tents; there's a mighty big storm over the hill, and he'll
be down this way before many minutes."
And we rowed to a high point at a small distance, covered with spruce
and fir trees, and put up our tents on the lee side of it, so as to be
sheltered from the wind as well as the rain. This was the work of only
ten minutes; but before we had finished, the deep voice of the thunder
came rolling over the forest, and we could see the storm rising over
the hills, in a long black line, all across the Western sky. The
lightning darted down towards the earth, or across from cloud to
cloud, and the thunder boomed and rolled along the heavens, its deep
rumble shaking the ground like an earthquake.
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