miles above Alton, Ind. (673 miles), struck
camp at sundown, without milk for our coffee--for water, being obliged
to settle and boil the roily element which bears us onward through the
lengthening days. Were there no hardships, this would be no pilgrimage
worthy of the name. We are out, philosophically to take the world as
it is; he who is not content to do so, had best not stir from home.

But our camping-place, to-night, is ideal. We are upon a narrow,
grassy ledge; below us, the sloping beach astrewn with jagged rocks;
behind us rises steeply a grand hillside forest, in which lie, mantled
with moss and lichens, and deep buried in undergrowth, boulders as
large as a "cracker's" hut; romantic glens abound, and a little run
comes noisily down a ravine hard by,--it is a witching back-door,
filled with surprises at every turn. Beeches, elms, maples, lindens,
pawpaws, tulip trees, here attain a monster growth,--with grape-vines,
their fruit now set, hanging in great festoons from the branches; and
all about, are the flowers which thrive best in shady solitudes--wild
licorice, a small green-brier, and, although not yet in bloom, the
sessile trillium. We are thoroughly isolated; a half-mile above us,
faintly gleams a government beacon, and we noticed on landing that
three-quarters of a mile below is a small cabin flanking the
hill. Naught disturbs our quiet, save the calls of the birds at
roosting-time, and now and then the hoarse bellow of a passing packet,
with its legacy of boisterous wake.

CHAPTER XVIII.

Village life--A traveling photographer--On a country
road--Studies in color--Again among colliers--In sweet
content--A ferry romance.

Near Troy, Ind., Friday, June 1st.--Below Alton, the hills are not so
high as above. We have, however, the same thoroughly rustic landscape,
the same small farms on the bottoms and wretched cabins on the slopes,
the same frontier-like clearings thick with stumps, the same shabby
little villages, and frequent ox-bow windings of the generous stream,
with lovely vistas unfolding and dissolving with panoramic regularity.
It is not a region where houseboaters flourish--there is but one every
ten miles or so; as for steamboats, we see on an average one a day,
while two or three usually pass us in the night.

A dry, unpainted little place is Alton, Ind., with three
down-at-the-heel shops, a tavern, a saloon, and a few dwellings; there
was no bread obtainable here, f