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 
