This low swampy island, filled with driftwood, these grey hoary trees, half
choked and killed with grey moss and lichens--those straggling alders and
black ash look melancholy--they are like premature old age, grey-headed
youths. That island divides the channel of the river--the old man takes
the nearest, the left hand, and now they are upon the broad Rice Lake, and
Catharine wearies her eye to catch the smoke of the shanty rising among the
trees--one after another the islands steal out into view--the capes, and
bays, and shores of the northern side are growing less distinct, Yon hollow
bay, where the beaver has hidden till now, backed by that bold sweep of
hills that look in the distance as if only covered with green ferns, with
here and there a tall tree, stately as a pine or oak--that is the spot
where Louis saw the landing of the Indians--now a rising village--Gores'
Landing. On yon lofty hill now stands the village church, its white tower
rising amongst the trees forms a charming object from the lake, and there
a little higher up, not far from the plank road, now stand pretty rural
cottages--one of these belong to the spirited proprietor of the village
that bears his name.
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