se straggling
alders and black ash look melancholy--they are like premature old age,
grey-headed youths. That island divides the channel of the river--the
old man takes the nearest, the left hand, and now they are upon the
broad Rice Lake, and Catharine wearies her eye to catch the smoke of the
shanty rising among the trees--one after another the islands steal out
into view--the capes, and bays, and shores of the northern side are
growing less distinct, Yon hollow bay, where the beaver has hidden till
now, backed by that bold sweep of hills that look in the distance as if
only covered with green ferns, with here and there a tall tree, stately
as a pine or oak--that is the spot where Louis saw the landing of the
Indians--now a rising village--Gores' Landing. On yon lofty hill now
stands the village church, its white tower rising amongst the trees
forms a charming object from the lake, and there a little higher up, not
far from the plank road, now stand pretty rural cottages--one of these
belong to the spirited proprietor of the village that bears his name.
That tasteful garden before the white cottage, to the right, is Colonel
Brown's, and there are pretty farms and cultivated spots; but silence
and loneliness reigned there at the time of which I write.

Where those few dark pines rise above the oak groves like the spires of
churches in a crowded city, is Mount Ararat. _[FN: Appendix N.]_ The
Indian girl steers straight between the islands for that ark of refuge,
and Catharine's eyes are dimmed with grateful tears as she pictures to
herself the joyful greeting in store for her. In the overflowings of her
gladness she seizes the old man's rugged hand and kisses it, and flings
her arms about the Indian girl and presses her to her heart, when the
canoe has touched the old well-remembered landing place, and she finds
herself so near, so very near her lost home. How precious are such
moments--how few we have in life--they are created from our very
sorrows--without our cares our joys would be less lively; but we have
no time to moralize--Catharine flies with the speed of a young fawn, to
climb the steep cliff-like shoulder of that steep bank, and now, out of
breath, stands at the threshold of her log-house--how neat and nice
it looks compared with the Indians' tents--the little field of corn is
green and flourishing--there is Hector's axe in a newly-cut log--it is
high noon--the boys ought to have been there taking their mid-da