There was a spirt or two of rain during the night, but not enough to find out the leaks in our roof.  It took the shower or series of showers of the next day to do that.  They commenced about two o’clock in the afternoon.  The forenoon had been fine, and we had brought into camp nearly three hundred trout; but before they were half dressed, or the first panfuls fried, the rain set in.  First came short, sharp dashes, then a gleam of treacherous sunshine, followed by more and heavier dashes.  The wind was in the southwest, and to rain seemed the easiest thing in the world.  From fitful dashes to a steady pour the transition was natural.  We stood huddled together, stark and grim, under our cover, like hens under a cart.  The fire fought bravely for a time, and retaliated with sparks and spiteful tongues of flame; but gradually its spirit was broken, only a heavy body of coal and half-consumed logs in the centre holding out against all odds.  The simmering fish were soon floating about in a yellow liquid that did not look in the least appetizing.  Point after point gave way in our cover, till standing between the drops was no longer possible.  The water coursed down the underside of the boards, and dripped in our necks and formed puddles on our hat-brims.  We shifted our guns and traps and viands, till there was no longer any choice of position, when the loaves and the fishes, the salt and the sugar, the pork and the butter, shared the same watery fate.  The fire was gasping its last.  Little rivulets coursed about it, and bore away the quenched but steaming coals on their bosoms.  The spring run in the rear of our camp swelled so rapidly that part of the trout that had been hastily left lying on its banks again found themselves quite at home.  For over two hours the floods came down.  About four o’clock Orville, who had not yet come from the day’s sport, appeared.  To say Orville was wet is not much; he was better than that,—­he had been washed and rinsed in at least half a dozen waters, and the trout that he bore dangling at the end of a string hardly knew that they had been out of their proper element.

But he brought welcome news.  He had been two or three miles down the creek, and had seen a log building,—­whether house or stable he did not know, but it had the appearance of having a good roof, which was inducement enough for us instantly to leave our present quarters.  Our course lay along an old wood-road, and much of the time we were to our knees in water.  The woods were literally flooded everywhere.  Every little rill and springlet ran like a mill-tail, while the main stream rushed and roared, foaming, leaping, lashing, its volume increased fifty-fold.  The water was not roily, but of a rich coffee-color, from the leachings of the woods.  No more trout for the next three days! we thought, as we looked upon the rampant stream.