stream meandering through a grass swamp looked far 

 more like a southern bayou than a northern river. 



Suddenly a house came to view on a rise ahead, the 

 stream stiffened to a miniature rapids between the con- 

 verging sand banks and ducked under the old railroad 

 trestle into Gunflint lake. The house was the summer 

 home of the station agent at North Lake. The weekly 

 train did not bother him much. 



There is nothing small about Gunflint. With few 

 bays or projecting points it stretches away to the west- 

 ward, seven miles of shimmering waters. One island, 

 Niggerhead, stands out blackly at the halfway point. 

 One large burn on the American shore flamed into a 

 blaze of flrew T eed. The rest of the shore was timbered, 

 a broad sand beech circled to the East end of the lake 

 and as our canoes crept slowly out over the water the 

 sand bottom stayed with us only three feet below the 

 surface. For an eighth of a mile the bright sand was 

 right there and the water so clear that it seemed as 

 though it could scarce be enough to float the canoe. 

 Then comes a sensation akin to jumping off the Brook- 

 lyn bridge, the bottom disappears suddenly and the 

 canoe glides smoothly out with 850 ft. of water below 

 her keel. The navigation of Gunflint has begun. 



About a mile up the Canadian shore we stopped at 

 George's to get some potatoes. He was delighted to 

 see us. His little garden was apparently composed of 

 a solid bed of reddish shale rock, the smallest piece 

 about the size of a pigeon egg. He raked around in 

 the rock awhile and collected us a pailful of very 

 healthy looking potatoes. And pansies! the place was 

 alive with them. All over the yard, along the paths, 





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