I cannot tell how long I had slept, when I woke with a violent start and the feeling that something had happened. The canoe was rocking slightly, and the rain was pounding upon the deck and tilt. At first I thought my bark had broken adrift, but the trickle of the water past her run was still audible, and on giving a pull at the cable, I could feel that the anchor was fast. I put my head out of the opening of the tilt, but, of course, nothing was to be seen in the black obscurity, so, as the canoe was now motionless again, I concluded that some floating object must have struck her and aroused me; and with this I lay down again, and was asleep directly. The dull light of a wet morning was streaming in through the companion hatch (as I may magniloquently call the tilt opening) when I next opened my eyes, and as I was ravenously hungry, I commenced the day by breakfasting off a portion of my pillow--it is needless to say which portion--after which I piped all hands to heave up the anchor. But before beginning to haul on the cable, I put my head outside the tilt to see that all was clear; and immediately the cause of last night’s disturbance was apparent. The lofty tree that had aroused my misgivings on the previous evening lay sprawling across the river, its flat base of roots at the top of the bank, and its crown of branches in mid-stream. It had fallen just over the place where I had first intended to anchor, and even now, some of the topmost branches were barely ten yards from the canoe. My caution had not been superfluous, and as I hauled in the cable--very gently, so as not to strain the anchor--I congratulated myself on my escape. I examined the anchor anxiously as it came up out of the water, and was much relieved to find it none the worse for the night’s work. Two out of the four flukes had been deep in the sandy bottom, and had manifestly held fast, for the canoe had not dragged an inch in the whole night. As the rain still fell slightly, I kept the tilt up, and drifted down, trailing the drag. My spirits were very buoyant, for I had succeeded beyond my expectations in this enterprise; one day of my voyage was gone, and I must have travelled well over sixty miles in the thirteen or fourteen hours that I had been under way. And not only had I left far behind the most imminent and alarming dangers, but I had met with far fewer obstacles and difficulties than I had anticipated. None of the rapids had been impassable, even to the loaded canoe, and the river had been most unexpectedly open and free from snags. But it was not all to be such plain sailing, for even as I was thus complacently reviewing the previous day’s exploits, my ear caught a new sound--an even, continuous murmur, faint and distant, but unmistakable--the sound of falling water.