We had learned that an unbroken stretch of river lay before us, clear to Towanda, six miles away. We could see the spire of a church against the lurid sky far down the valley. The sky ahead was fast filling with heaps of dark clouds, racing faster than I have ever seen clouds move. Behind, from horizon to zenith, the air was like a slate colored cavern, with masses and feathery sheets of dark-brown vapor, tumbling and rushing low down, so low as to strike the mountain. There was no rain—nothing but wind, and it was right astern, and held there by the towering mountain on our left. The waves combed out before us, higher than the boats. We could not have kept a quarter of a point off such a blast. We felt the gale on our backs like a physical pressure. It was a magnificent race. We had not even to steer. We sat still and were driven straight ahead, and, had there been a bend in the river, we should have had to run ashore. As quickly as the storm had risen, it subsided or passed. Far sooner than I would dare to write, we saw the tall bridge at Towanda half a mile ahead of us. We had run down five or six miles of river in as quick time, I think, as canoes could safely travel.
Before we reached Towanda the storm had crossed the mountain and the sun was out. We
