“It might be wise for us to remain the entire day in the forest,” replied the Onondaga.  “After the great and long trial of our strength last night, we need much rest.  And tonight we can make speed on the river again.  What says Lennox?”

“I’m for it,” replied Robert, “but I suggest that we go deeper into the forest, taking the canoe with us, and hide our trail.  I think I see the gleam of water to our right and if I’m correct it means a brook, up which we can walk carrying the canoe with us.”

“A good idea, Robert,” said Willet.  “Suppose you look first and see if it’s really a brook.”

The lad returned in a moment or two with a verification.  The water of the little stream was clear, but it had a fine sandy bottom on which footprints were effaced in a few seconds.  They waded up it nearly a mile until they came to stony ground, when they left the brook and walked on the outcrop or detached stones a considerable distance, passing at last through dense thickets into a tiny open space.  They put the canoe down in the center of the opening, which was circular, and stretched their own bodies on the grass close to the bushes, through which they could see without being seen.

“That trail is well hidden,” said Willet, “or rather it’s no trail at all.  It’s just about as much trace as a bird leaves, flying through the air.”

“Do you know where we are, Dave?” asked Robert.

“We’re not so far from the edge of the wilderness.  Before long the land will begin to slope down toward the St. Lawrence.  But it’s all wild enough.  The French settlements themselves don’t go very far back from the big river.  And the St. Lawrence is a mighty stream, Robert.  I reckon there’s not another such river on the globe.  The Mississippi I suppose is longer, and carries more volume to the sea, but the St. Lawrence is full of clear water, Robert, think of that!  Most all the other big rivers of the world, I hear, are muddy and yellow, but the St. Lawrence, being the overflow of the big lakes, is pure.  Sometimes it’s blue and sometimes it’s green, according to the sunlight or the lack of it, and sometimes it’s another color, but always it’s good, fresh water, flowing between mighty banks to the sea, the stream getting deeper and deeper and broader and broader the farther it goes, till beyond Quebec it’s five and then ten miles across, and near the ocean it’s nigh as wide as Erie or Ontario.  I’m always betting on the St. Lawrence, Robert.  I haven’t been on all the other continents, but I don’t believe they can show anything to beat it.”

“Have you seen much of the big lakes, Dave?”