RAMBLES ABOUT GEORGETOWN 213 



thrushes. Swallows of some kind — cliff-swallows, no 

 doubt — were silently weaving invisible filigree across 

 the sky above the tops of the stately pines. 



In the afternoon we made our way, with not a little 

 laborious effort, to the farther end of the lake, across 

 which a red-shafted flicker would occasionally wine; its 

 galloping flight ; thence through a wilderness of large 

 rocks and fallen pines to a beckoning ridge, where, to 

 our surprise, another beautiful aqueous sheet greeted 

 our vision in the valley beyond. Descending to its 

 shores, we had still another surprise — its waters were 

 brown instead of green. Here were two mountain lakes 

 not more than a quarter of a mile apart, one of which 

 was gi-een and the other brown, each with a beauty all 

 its own. In the brown lake near the shore there were 

 glints of gold as the sun shone through its ripples on the 

 rocks at the bottom. Afterwards we learned that the 

 name of this liquid gem was Clear Lake, and that 

 the western branch of Clear Creek flows through it, 

 tarrying a while to sport and dally with the sunbeams. 

 While Green Lake was embowered in a forest of pine, 

 its companion lay in the open sunlight, unflecked by 

 the shadow of a tree. 



At the upper end of Clear Lake we found a green, 

 bosky and bushy corner, which formed the summer tryst 

 of white-crowned sparrows, Wilson^s warblers, and broad- 

 tailed humming-birds, none of which could find a suit- 



