nothing. The rescuing party met him trudging along with all his baggage. The opodeldoc had revived him, and he had traveled a full mile when he met the rescuing party. At two o'clock the team returned bringing the lost wayfarer.

Another adventure terminated more disastrously than this. In the spring of 1835 I was employed in taking logs across Moosehead lake. The logs were in booms, and were moved by a capstan and rope. This was before the days of steamboats, and the moving of the booms was no light task. On this occasion a gale of wind struck us and drifted us across the lake. We threw out an anchor, hoping to check the course of the boom and swing it into Cowan's bay. In one of our throws the anchor tripped, or caught fast, and suddenly tightened the line. Our whole crew were in an instant hurled headlong. Some were thrown into the water. One man (Butler) had his ribs broken. All were more or less injured. The capstan went overboard. The old boom swung on and on, and, passing Spencer's bay, broke and went to pieces on the shore. The logs were with great difficulty regathered, but were finally brought to the outlet of the lake July 4th, the last raft of the season.

After river driving in the spring of 1835, I went to the Penobscot river and found employment at twenty dollars a month at East Great Works, building a dam. John Mills, our superintendent, was a good man. There was a lyceum here, the first I ever attended. In December I returned to the Kennebec, and in the spring of 1836 went to Dead river to drive, but an attack of the measles and general ill health, with symptoms of pulmonary derangement, compelled me to abandon the work. I had lived nine years on the Kennebec, years of hard labor and exertion beyond my strength, and in that time had earned enough to pay my father two hundred and fifty dollars. I had been able to purchase a small library, and had two hundred dollars in cash to defray my expenses to the West.

Reminiscences.—He that leaves the home of his youth for a strange land carries with him memories, pleasant to recall, of scenes and incidents, the influence of which he feels to the latest hour of life. There are some things he can not forget. They may not be an essential part of his own life history, but still they have found a place in his mind and seem a part of himself, and he recurs to them again and again with ever increasing delight. There are other things, may be, not so pleasant to dwell upon, which still have a place in his memory and may be profitably recalled. No one who has ever lived in Maine can forget its dark pine forests, its rugged hills, its rushing streams, cold and clear as crystal, its broad lakes, the abundant game of its forests and the fish in its waters. The Minnesota and Wisconsin pioneers, who with the author of this book claim Maine as an early home, will not object to the insertion in this chapter of a few of these reminiscences.

Moosehead Lake.—My first visit to Moosehead lake was in the early winter of 1834. At that time it was still in the wilderness, only two settlers having found their way to its shores. We were going with a six ox team to a camp on the Brasua and our road led us across the frozen lake. Emerging from a beech and maple grove on the margin near Haskell's, our sled plunged downward, and in a moment we found ourselves on the gray ice of the lake, with a wonderful panorama spread out before us. The distant islands and the shores, hilly and mountainous, stood out plainly between the winter sky and the ice covered lake. The mirage added its finishing touches to the picture, increasing the brightness and apparent size of distant objects, or lending them brilliant hues, the whole scene sparkling in the frosty sunlit air, making a vision of beauty that could not fade. On we trudged over the ice, the sled creaking, the ice emitting a roaring sound, not unlike the discharge of a park of artillery, sounds produced