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I remember riding once with my lady Graygown fifteen miles through a cold rainstorm, in an open buckboard, over the worst road in the world, from LAC A LA BELLE RIVIERE to the Metabetchouan River.
At the upper end of the bower our progress in the boat was barred by a low bridge, on a forgotten road that wound through the pine-woods. Here I left my lady Graygown, seated on the shady corner of the bridge with a book, swinging her feet over the stream, while I set out to explore its further course. Above the wood-road there were no more fairy dells, nor easy-going estuaries.
My creel was already overflowing, so I emptied out all of the grayling into his bag, and went on up the river to complete my tale of trout before dark. And when the fishing is over, there is Graygown with the wagon, waiting at the appointed place under the trees, beside the road. The sturdy white pony trots gayly homeward.
But the water already rises to my hips; another step will bring it over the top of my waders, and send me downstream feet uppermost. "Take care!" cries Graygown from the grassy bank, where she sits placidly crocheting some mysterious fabric of white yarn. She does not see the large rock lying at the bottom of the river just beyond me.
I am as sure that it has already surrendered to Graygown as if I could discern her white banner of crochet-work floating from the battlements. Just before dark, I climb the hill with a heavy basket of fish. The castle gate is open. The scent of chicken and pancakes salutes the weary pilgrim.
But suddenly the trout, by one of those unaccountable freaks which make their disposition so interesting and attractive, began to rise all about us in a bend of the stream. "Look!" said Teddy; "wherever you see one of those big smiles on the water, I believe there's a fish!" Fortunately the rod was at hand. Graygown and Teddy managed the boat and the landing-net with consummate skill.
As he climbed to his perch on our portmanteau, my lady Graygown congratulated me on the prudence which had provided that one side of that receptacle should be of an inflexible stiffness, quite incapable of being crushed; otherwise, asked she, what would have become of her Sunday frock under the pressure of this stern necessity of a postboy?
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