It is remarkable that the great commoner should have made himself understood by a boy of eight, but in so doing he exemplified the gift that raised him above all the men I have met—­that of throwing light into dark places so that all could see the truth that was hidden there.

Now and then we came to noisy water hills slanting far back through rocky timbered gorges, or little foamy stairways in the river leading up to higher levels.  The men carried the canoes around these places while I followed gathering wild flowers and watching the red-winged black birds that flew above us calling hoarsely across the open spaces.  Now and then, a roaring veering cloud of pigeons passed in the upper air.  The breath of the river was sweet with the fragrance of pine and balsam.

We were going around a bend when we heard the voice of Bill shouting just above us.  He had run the bow of his canoe on a gravel beach just below a little waterfall and a great trout was flopping and tumbling about in the grass beside him.

“Yip!” he shouted as he held up the radiant, struggling fish that reached from his chin to his belt.  “I tell ye boys they’re goin’ to be sassy as the devil.  Jump out an’ go to work here.”

With what emotions I leaped out upon the gravel and watched the fishing!  A new expression came into the faces of the men.  Their mouths opened.  There was a curious squint in their eyes.  Their hands trembled as they baited their hooks.  The song of the river, tumbling down a rocky slant, filled the air.  I saw the first bite.  How the pole bent!  How the line hissed as it went rushing through the water out among the spinning bubbles!  What a splash as the big fish in his coat of many colors broke through the ripples and rose aloft and fell at my feet throwing a spray all over me as he came down!  That was the way they fished in those days.  They angled with a stout pole of seasoned tamarack and no reel, and catching a fish was like breaking a colt to halter.

While he was fishing Mr. Wright slipped off the rock he stood on and sank shoulder deep in the water.  I ran and held out my hand crying loudly.  Uncle Peabody helped him ashore with his pole.  Tears were flowing down my cheeks while I stood sobbing in a kind of juvenile hysterics.

“What’s the matter?” Uncle Peabody demanded.

“I was ‘fraid—­Mr. Wright—­was goin’ to be drownded,” I managed to say.

The Comptroller shook his arms and came and knelt by my side and kissed me.

“God bless the dear boy!” he exclaimed.  “It’s a long time since any one cried for me.  I love you, Bart.”

When Bill swore after that the Comptroller raised his hand and shook his head and uttered a protesting hiss.

We got a dozen trout before we resumed our journey and reached camp soon after one o’clock very hungry.  It was a rude bark lean-to, and we soon made a roaring fire in front of it.  What a dinner we had! the bacon and the fish fried in its fat and the boiled potatoes and the flapjacks and maple sugar!  All through my long life I have sought in vain for a dinner like it.  I helped with the washing of the dishes and, that done, Bill made a back for his fire of green beech logs, placed one upon the other and held in place by stakes driven in the ground.  By and by Mr. Wright asked me if I would like to walk over to Alder Brook with him.