CHAP. viii. THE ' LAKE WHERE THE SAND LIES.' 127 



whisky-jacks, followed us up the silent and gloomy river, 

 and did not leave us until we entered the Ka-wa-si-ta-ga- 

 wish, or ' Lake where the Sand lies.' 



The quiet lake lay calm and fair as we gently stole 

 upon its waters - - smooth as a mirror, and reflecting with 

 perfect fidelity the green and purple mountains on its 

 shores. This is truly a land of contrasts. From a 

 sluggish river coated with slime, with a heavy, damp, 

 dispiriting atmosphere brooding over it, to a bright and 

 limpid lake, full of sunshine and colour, is but a step over 

 which you slip insensibly, but not without instantly 

 realising the change. 



The day is hot, but the shadows of the purple moun- 

 tains are deep, and the waters of the lake ice-cold. 

 Passing from sunshine into shade, a chill thrills through 

 every limb, and you turn back to the pleasant glow again 

 to enjoy the warm air and brilliant light. Ice lingers on 

 those distant cloud-capped peaks, but all around, the 

 trees, where trees can grow on the sloping rocks, wear 

 their summer dress. Still, something weighs upon the 

 spirits which you find it impossible to shake off. What 

 is it? All, more or less, are under its influence. The 

 Indians are silent as the grave. The French voyageurs 

 neither laugh, nor talk, nor sing, but move their paddles 

 mechanically, dipping them carefully into the water to 

 make as little noise as possible. What is it that seems 

 to weigh upon the spirits of us all ? It is the absence of 

 life, it is the consciousness of being in a desolate wilder- 

 ness. Eocks and trees and water are as beautiful as they 

 can be imagined, yet there is no bird, or beast, or fish to 

 cjive animation to this lovely scene. 



o / 



