Having no doubt that I was within half a mile, perhaps within a few rods, of the house above the entrance of the gorge, and that, in any event, I should fall into the cart-path in a few minutes, I struck boldly into the forest, congratulating myself on having escaped out of the river.  So sure was I of my whereabouts that I did not note the bend of the river, nor look at my compass.  The one trout in my basket was no burden, and I stepped lightly out.

The forest was of hard-wood, and open, except for a thick undergrowth of moose-bush.  It was raining,—­in fact, it had been raining, more or less, for a month,—­and the woods were soaked.  This moose-bush is most annoying stuff to travel through in a rain; for the broad leaves slap one in the face, and sop him with wet.  The way grew every moment more dingy.  The heavy clouds above the thick foliage brought night on prematurely.  It was decidedly premature to a near-sighted man, whose glasses the rain rendered useless:  such a person ought to be at home early.  On leaving the river bank I had borne to the left, so as to be sure to strike either the clearing or the road, and not wander off into the measureless forest.  I confidently pursued this course, and went gayly on by the left flank.  That I did not come to any opening or path only showed that I had slightly mistaken the distance:  I was going in the right direction.

I was so certain of this that I quickened my pace and got up with alacrity every time I tumbled down amid the slippery leaves and catching roots, and hurried on.  And I kept to the left.  It even occurred to me that I was turning to the left so much that I might come back to the river again.  It grew more dusky, and rained more violently; but there was nothing alarming in the situation, since I knew exactly where I was.  It was a little mortifying that I had miscalculated the distance:  yet, so far was I from feeling any uneasiness about this that I quickened my pace again, and, before I knew it, was in a full run; that is, as full a run as a person can indulge in in the dusk, with so many trees in the way.  No nervousness, but simply a reasonable desire to get there.  I desired to look upon myself as the person “not lost, but gone before.”  As time passed, and darkness fell, and no clearing or road appeared, I ran a little faster.  It didn’t seem possible that the people had moved, or the road been changed; and yet I was sure of my direction.  I went on with an energy increased by the ridiculousness of the situation, the danger that an experienced woodsman was in of getting home late for supper; the lateness of the meal being nothing to the gibes of the unlost.  How long I kept this course, and how far I went on, I do not know; but suddenly I stumbled against an ill-placed tree, and sat down on the soaked ground, a trifle out of breath.  It then occurred to me that I had better verify my course by the compass.  There was scarcely light enough to distinguish the black end of the needle.  To my amazement, the compass, which was made near Greenwich, was wrong.  Allowing for the natural variation of the needle, it was absurdly wrong.  It made out that I was going south when I was going north.  It intimated that, instead of turning to the left, I had been making a circuit to the right.  According to the compass, the Lord only knew where I was.