OMENS OF A STORM. 191 



search of a deer. The heavy fog lay in masses upon 

 the water, and the damp morning was still and quiet 

 as the night that had passed. I floated about till the 

 sun rose over the mountains, turning that lake into a 

 sheet of gold, and sending the mist in spiral wreaths 

 skyward, and then slowly paddled my way back to our 

 camp. As I was thus floating tranquilly along over 

 the water, I heard far up the lake, where it lost itself 

 in the mountains, two distinct and heavy reports like 

 the discharge of fire-arms. Who could be in that 

 solitude besides ourselves ? was the first enquiry. I 

 mentioned the circumstance when I reached the 

 camp, and found that my companions, who had been 

 busy in preparing breakfast, had also been startled by 

 the sound. Mitchell, just then returned from an expe- 

 dition after a fish-hawk, which he brought back with 

 him, hearing our conjectures, very quietly remarked, 

 they were not rifle shots. His quick ear never de- 

 ceived him. "What, then, were they?" I enquired. 

 " Trees," he replied. " But," said I, " there is not 

 a breath of air this morning, while it blew very hard 

 yesterday afternoon." " They always fall," he re- 

 plied, " before a storm — it will storm to-morrow." 

 There was something sad in thinking of those two 



