It would be shame to call it a roar.
_Herregud!_ 'tis no more than a ruin of what it was. Sunk into
poverty, great rocks thrust up all down the channel, with here and there a
stick of timber hung up thwart and slantwise; one could cross dry-shod by
way of stick and stone.
* * * * *
I have done all I have to do in the town, and my pack is on my shoulders.
It is Sunday, and a fine clear day.
I look in at the hotel, to see the porter; he is going with me a bit of
the way up the river. The great good-hearted fellow offers to carry my
things--as if I could not carry them myself.
We go up along the right bank; but the road itself lies on the left; the
way we are taking is only a summer path, trodden only by the lumbermen,
and with some few fresh tracks in the snow. My companion cannot make out
why we do not follow the road: he was always dull of wit; but I have been
up this path twice before these last few days, and I am going up it once
again. It is my own tracks we can see all the time.
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