River-drivers usually eat four times a day--at least this practice obtains on the Penobscot--viz.: at five and ten o'clock A.M., and at two and eight P.M. After the two o'clock meal, when the drive on the main river is under successful headway, the camp-ground is forsaken, the tent struck, and the wangun is run as far down river as it is thought the drive will reach by night, where arrangements are made, as usual, for the crew, by the cook and "cookee," as his assistant is called. It may happen that the drive does not progress according to the calculations of the cook, and a short row down river is necessary to reach the wangun. Between the mouth of the Piscataquis and Oldtown, a distance of twenty or twenty-five miles, are numerous beautiful islands, some of them large, and generally covered with a heavy growth of hard-wood, among which the Elm abounds. When the logs arrive at this point, many of the encampments are fixed upon these islands. As the sun sinks behind the western hills, the lengthened shadows of the beautiful island forests shoot across the mirrored river, casting a deep shade, which soon disappears amid the denser curtain of an advanced evening, with which they blend. The roar of rushing waters is over, and the current glides smoothly on. No sound is heard but the echo of the merry boatmen's laugh, and of voices here and there on the river, with now and then the shred of a song, and the creaking and plashing of oars. While thus passing down, as the boats turn a sudden bend in the river, a dozen lights gleam from the islands, throwing their lengthened scintillations over the water. Now the question goes round, "Which is our light?" "There's one on the east side!" "Yes, and there's another on Sugar Island!" "And there's one on Hemlock!" says a third. "Why the d--l hadn't they gone to Bangor, and done with it?" "Wangun No. 1, ahoy!" shouts the helmsman, a little exasperated with fatigue and hunger. Now, while all the rest of the cooks remain silent, No. 1 cook responds in turn. Another calls out the name of their particular log-mark: "Blaze Belt, ahoy!" "Where in thunder are you?" "Blaze Belt, this way, this way!" comes echoing from Hemlock Island, and away the Blaze Belt bateau rows with its merry-making crew. Thus each crew, in turn, is finally conducted to its respective camp-fire. The prospect of a release from the arduous labors on the drive at this point of progress raises the thermometer of feeling, which imparts a right merry interest to every thing. Like sailors "homeward bound," after a three or nine months' cruise, and within one day's sail of port, relaxation and pastimes only are thought and talked of.