162 WAKE-ROBIN 



that halt on the summit, where we cooked and ate 

 our fish in ajdrizzling rain; nor, again, that rude 

 log house, with its sweet hospitality, which we 

 reached just at nightfall on Mill Brook. 



In 1868 a party of three of us set out for a 

 brief trouting excursion to a body of water called 

 Thomas's Lake, situated in the same chain of moun- 

 tains. On this excursion, more particularly than 

 on any other I have ever undertaken, I was taught 

 how poor an Indian I should make, and what a 

 ridiculous figure a party of men may cut in the 

 woods when the way is uncertain and the mountains 

 high. 



We left our team at a farmhouse near the head 

 of the Mill Brook, one June afternoon, and with 

 knapsacks on our shoulders struck into the woods 

 at the base of the mountain, hoping to cross the 

 range that intervened between us and the lake by 

 sunset. We engaged a good-natured but rather 

 indolent young man, who happened to be stopping 

 at the house, and who had carried a knapsack in 

 the Union armies, to pilot us a couple of miles 

 into the woods so as to guard against any mistakes 

 at the outset. It seemed the easiest thing in the 

 world to find the lake. The lay of the land was 

 so simple, according to accounts, that I felt sure I 

 could go to it in the dark. "Go up this little 

 brook to its source on the side of the mountain," 

 they said. "The valley that contains the lake 

 heads directly on the other side." What could be 

 easier! But on a little further inquiry, they said 



