XXVII. 



LOST IN THE WOODS AN OLD INDIAN AND HIS DAUGHTER 



FAREWELL TO MITCHELL MOSQUITOES AND BLACK 



FLIES. 



In the "Woods, August. 



Dear H- 



It was with weary forms and saddened hearts that 

 we left this morning our encampment on Forked 

 Lake, and turned the prows of our boats homeward. 

 A person who has never traveled in the woods, cannot 

 appreciate the feelings of regret with which one leaves 

 the spot where he has once pitched his tent. The 

 half-extinguished firebrands scattered around — the 

 broken sticks that for the time being seemed valuable 

 as silver forks, and the deserted shanty, all have a 

 desolate appearance, and it seems like forsaking trusty 

 friends, to leave them there alone in the forest. 



The morning was sombre, and the wind fresh as we 



