TROUT FISHING — MITCHELL. 49 



ridge of the skj-s^king mountains, and his depart- 

 ing beams threw in still deeper contrast the under 

 side of the clouds. But still the waves kept dancing 

 in the light, as if determined not to be frowned out 

 of their frolic, and it was with no little pleasure I 

 watched the awful-looking mass that covered the 

 northern heavens yield to the glorious, balmy, yet 

 swift careering breeze that came sweeping the heart 

 of the lake. I was after Slitchell, the Indian, whom 

 I had formerly tal^en with me, and who, I was told, 

 was on a fishing excursion, wdth his father and sister 

 and some others, in Cold River. At length, just as 

 we were glancing away from the head of a beautiful 

 island, I saw a boat coming towards us impelled 

 against the wind by the steady strokes of a powerful 

 rower. As it shot near, I beheld the swarthy and 

 benevolent face of Mitchell. He lay on his oars 

 scarcely a minute to hear my salutation and my pro- 

 position, when he pointed to a deep bay a mile dis- 

 tant, around which stretched a white line of sand, 

 and again bent to his oars. I followed after, for I 

 knew there was his camp, and soon after our boats 

 grated on the smooth beach, and we were sitting be- 

 side a bark shanty and discussing our future plans. 

 But those few barks piled against some poles were 

 not enough to cover us, and soon every one was at 

 work peeling spi^ce trees or picking hemlock boughs 

 for our couch. The cloudless sun went proudly, nay, 

 to me triumphantly, to his royal couch amid the 

 mountain summits, and as twilight deepened over the 

 wild landscape, our camp fire shot its cheerful flame 



