Early the next morning we started on our return up the Penobscot, my companion wishing to go about twenty-five miles above the Moosehead carry to a camp near the junction of the two forks, and look for moose there.  Our host allowed us something for the quarter of the moose which we had brought, and which he was glad to get.  Two explorers from Chamberlain Lake started at the same time that we did.  Red flannel shirts should be worn in the woods, if only for the fine contrast which this color makes with the evergreens and the water.  Thus I thought when I saw the forms of the explorers in their birch, poling up the rapids before us, far off against the forest.  It is the surveyor’s color also, most distinctly seen under all circumstances.  We stopped to dine at Ragmuff, as before.  My companion it was who wandered up the stream to look for moose this time, while Joe went to sleep on the bank, so that we felt sure of him; and I improved the opportunity to botanize and bathe.  Soon after starting again, while Joe was gone back in the canoe for the frying-pan, which had been left, we picked a couple of quarts of tree-cranberries for a sauce.

I was surprised by Joe’s asking me how far it was to the Moosehorn.  He was pretty well acquainted with this stream, but he had noticed that I was curious about distances, and had several maps.  He, and Indians generally, with whom I have talked, are not able to describe dimensions or distances in our measures with any accuracy.  He could tell, perhaps, at what time we should arrive, but not how far it was.  We saw a few wood-ducks, sheldrakes, and black ducks, but they were not so numerous there at that season as on our river at home.  We scared the same family of wood-ducks before us, going and returning.  We also heard the note of one fish-hawk, somewhat like that of a pigeon-woodpecker, and soon after saw him perched near the top of a dead white-pine against the island where we had first camped, while a company of peetweets were twittering and teetering about over the carcass of a moose on a low sandy spit just beneath.  We drove the fish-hawk from perch to perch, each time eliciting a scream or whistle, for many miles before us.  Our course being up-stream, we were obliged to work much harder than before, and had frequent use for a pole.  Sometimes all three of us paddled together, standing up, small and heavily laden as the canoe was.  About six miles from Moosehead, we began to see the mountains east of the north end of the lake, and at four o’clock we reached the carry.

The Indians were still encamped here.  There were three, including the St. Francis Indian who had come in the steamer with us.  One of the others was called Sabattis.  Joe and the St. Francis Indian were plainly clear Indian, the other two apparently mixed Indian and white; but the difference was confined to their features and complexions, for all that I could see.  We here cooked the tongue of the moose for supper,—­having left the nose, which