i 3 4 A SPORTSMAN'S EDEN. 



seen a good deal of the original, I can commend 

 it as being a wonderfully faithful portrait. 



On my way back from the sheep-grounds, I 

 camped one night on an old Indian camping- 

 ground in a narrow valley over which tall hills 

 and mountain-peaks impended. The Indians had 

 left for the moment, but their traces were round 

 us on all sides, in the bare poles which once sup- 

 ported their tents, and on which now, in trustful 

 fashion, were hung little bags of deer's hide, con- 

 taining Heaven knows what. Paint, perhaps, to 

 adorn themselves, or the dried galls of beasts to 

 use as drugs. A few frying-pans, too (with holes 

 in them), lay around, and innumerable feet of 

 deer, showing plainly on what the tribe had lived. 

 A stream which ran through the camp had been 

 dammed, hardly as neatly as if beavers had been 

 the engineers, and there were traces of a native 

 laundry and bathing-house. Small beds of dry 

 brush showed where each chief had lain, and by 

 the bank of the river at some distance was a low 

 mud hovel, in shape like a bee-hive, with a hole 

 facing the water just big enough for a man to 

 crawl through. This, my guide told me, was an 

 Indian ' sweat-house ' (the word sounds ill, but it 

 is good English), a native form of the institution 

 known in different countries as Turkish or Rus- 

 sian baths. Like the Russians, the Indians are 



