FOREST LIFE 45 



the dense forest where his couch is the boughs he him- 

 self cuts, and his companions the wild deer and the 

 birds ; or in emerging again into civilized life, and 

 listening to the strange tumult that has not ceased in 

 his absence. One seems to have dreamed twice — nay, 

 to be in a dream yet. Yesterday, as it were, I was 

 walking the crowded streets of New York ; last eve- 

 ning, in a birch-bark canoe, with an Indian beside 

 rne, nearly a day's journey from a human habitation, 

 sailing over a lake whose green shores have never been 

 marred by the axe of civilization, and on whose broad 

 expanse not a boat was floating, but that which guided 

 me and my companions on. For miles the Indian has 

 carried this canoe on his head through the woods, and 

 now it is breasting the waves that come rolling like 

 fluid gold from the west. The sun is going to his re- 

 pose amid the purple mountains — the blue sky seems 

 to lift in the elastic atmosphere — the scream of the 

 wild bird fills the solitude, and all is strange and new, 

 while green islands untrodden by man greet us as we 

 steer towards yonder distant point, where our camp-fire 

 is to be lighted to-night.- Glorious scene — glorious 

 evening ! with my Indian and my rifle by my side — 

 skimming in this canoe along the clear waters, how 



