188 BOONEVTLT.E TO SARATOGA. 



It was one o'clock when we reached the landing on the 

 hank of the Inlet and lunched. John, as usual, after the last 

 mouthful was eaten, fumbled in his pockets for his brier- wood 

 pipe. Alas! it was no where to be found! And he had no 

 other. Every smoker will understand the situation, and ap- 

 preciate the extent of the calamity. John remembered that 

 at a certain point, half a mile back on the carrj^, while trudg- 

 ing along under his boat, he had knocked out the ashes from 

 his pipe, but could not for the life of him remember what 

 next happened to the precious thing. AVe went back ovei' 

 the route, carefully examining every step of the way, stir- 

 ring up the leaves and bushes, and were I'eturning hopeless 

 from our search, when by good forlune John discovered 

 his pet. 



" I vow," said he, as he tilled the bowl and lighted the 

 tobacco, " ril never come into the woods again with onl}" 

 one pipe." 



The Inlet is a narroAV, deep stream, winding down 

 through a most desolate tamarack swamp, and entering 

 Raquette Lake through a tree-less mai'sli, — as distressingly 

 desolate a scene as one often comes ui)on in the wilderness. 

 Sojourners on Rafpiette are prone to attribute to "John 

 Brown's Tract" the uninviting characteristics of the Inlet; 

 and with this before their eyes and the terrors of the carry 

 dinned into their ears, it is not surprising that they al)andou 

 all hope or desire to visit what the}' conceive to be "John 

 Brown's Swamp." 



It was with sensations of exquisite delight that we 

 entered Raquette Lake, renowned and glorious and deserv- 



