IN A FISHING COUNTRY 



the stupendous walls; unlike the Saguenay's 

 fiord, before whose equal cliffs the eye is 

 helpless. 



The Lake of the Long Blue Ones — other- 

 wise Lac a Moreau, named after the Mon- 

 tagnais — would have been welcome in any 

 guise, but we fell on a lovely sheet of glass- 

 green water lapping clean sandy shores 

 from which the unbroken woods stand 

 back to give wide breathing-space. A bold 

 peak guards the upper end; the rounded 

 summit, planed smooth afore-time beneath 

 a mile of flowing ice, is now caressed by 

 slow-moving clouds. Innumerable shades 

 of new leafage below merge into the gray 

 of moss and weathered granite aloft. The 

 Indian chose passing well; it is many a 

 year since he swung an ax, the traces are 

 blurred, but a few mouldering stumps and 

 healed-over blazes yet mark the spot which 

 was his home. 



A site, commanding lake and mountain, 

 found for the tent, forthwith three imperi- 

 ous needs arose, nor was either member of 

 the party troubled with doubts as to the 

 order of their precedence — drink, swim, 

 food. Five yards from the tent the mosses 

 distilled a tiny freshet which might have 

 served by itself to slake thirst, but the day's 

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