CLOSE OF THE INDIAN SUMMER. 347 



tains, with snow-clad summits dim in the haze of 

 distance, their craggy slopes split into chasms 

 and ravines, so deep, dark, and lonesome, that 

 no man's footfall has ever disturbed their soli- 

 tudes, so densely wooded up to the very snow- 

 line with pine, that a bare rock has hardly a 

 chance to peep out, and break the sombre mono- 

 tony of the dark-green foliage. 



Before me, stretching away for about three 

 miles, is an open grassy prairie, one side of which 

 is bounded by the Chilukweyuk river, the other 

 by the Fraser. At the junction of the two 

 streams, at an angle of the prairie, stands an 

 Indian village: the rude-plank sheds and rush- 

 lodges; the white smoke, curling gracefully up 

 through the still atmosphere from many lodge- 

 fires; the dusky forms of the savages, as they 

 loll or stroll in the fitful night, give life and 

 character to a scene indescribably lovely. 



The Indian summer is drawing to a close ; the 

 maple, the cottonwood, and the hawthorn, fring- 

 ing the winding waterways, like silver cords inter- 

 secting the prairie, have assumed their autumn 

 tints, and, clad in browns and yellows, stand out 

 in brilliant contrast to the green of the pine- 

 forest. The prairie looks bright and lovely ; the 

 grass, as yet untouched by the frost-fairy's 



