Roughing It eBook

all emergencies unless she takes her fan under one arm and her snow shoes under the other.  When they have a Fourth of July procession it generally snows on them, and they do say that as a general thing when a man calls for a brandy toddy there, the bar keeper chops it off with a hatchet and wraps it up in a paper, like maple sugar.  And it is further reported that the old soakers haven’t any teeth—­wore them out eating gin cocktails and brandy punches.  I do not endorse that statement—­I simply give it for what it is worth—­and it is worth—­well, I should say, millions, to any man who can believe it without straining himself.  But I do endorse the snow on the Fourth of July—­because I know that to be true.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

About seven o’clock one blistering hot morning—­for it was now dead summer time—­Higbie and I took the boat and started on a voyage of discovery to the two islands.  We had often longed to do this, but had been deterred by the fear of storms; for they were frequent, and severe enough to capsize an ordinary row-boat like ours without great difficulty—­and once capsized, death would ensue in spite of the bravest swimming, for that venomous water would eat a man’s eyes out like fire, and burn him out inside, too, if he shipped a sea.  It was called twelve miles, straight out to the islands—­a long pull and a warm one—­but the morning was so quiet and sunny, and the lake so smooth and glassy and dead, that we could not resist the temptation.  So we filled two large tin canteens with water (since we were not acquainted with the locality of the spring said to exist on the large island), and started.  Higbie’s brawny muscles gave the boat good speed, but by the time we reached our destination we judged that we had pulled nearer fifteen miles than twelve.

We landed on the big island and went ashore.  We tried the water in the canteens, now, and found that the sun had spoiled it; it was so brackish that we could not drink it; so we poured it out and began a search for the spring—­for thirst augments fast as soon as it is apparent that one has no means at hand of quenching it.  The island was a long, moderately high hill of ashes—­nothing but gray ashes and pumice-stone, in which we sunk to our knees at every step—­and all around the top was a forbidding wall of scorched and blasted rocks.  When we reached the top and got within the wall, we found simply a shallow, far-reaching basin, carpeted with ashes, and here and there a patch of fine sand.  In places, picturesque jets of steam shot up out of crevices, giving evidence that although this ancient crater had gone out of active business, there was still some fire left in its furnaces.  Close to one of these jets of steam stood the only tree on the island—­a small pine of most graceful shape and most faultless symmetry; its color was a brilliant green, for the steam drifted unceasingly through its branches and kept them always moist.  It contrasted strangely enough, did this vigorous and beautiful outcast, with its dead and dismal surroundings.  It was like a cheerful spirit in a mourning household.