XLVI. 



FORKED LAKE — ROCK POND — SEA-GULLS — A NEW 

 ROUTE — HARD CARRYING-PLACE — A TERRIBLE TRAMP 

 — LOST IN THE WOODS — A COOL DEER — FORKED 

 LAKE AT NIGHT — A WELCOME HUNTER'S CABIN. 



Forked Lake, July. 

 Dear H : 



Here I am, on old familiar ground. Fifteen years 

 ago I camped here one night with my old friend 

 Mitchell, the Indian, whose bark canoe had borne me 

 over the rippling waters on an evening of one of the 

 most beautiful days that ever blessed the world. It 

 has changed but little since that time. Then not a 

 hut was to be found on all its shores, and though so 

 long an interval has elapsed, but one log shanty has 

 since been reared to break the solitude. A road, how- 

 ever, I am told, has been cut near it leading to Eaquette 

 Lake, which is passable for teams, while at that time it 

 could be reached only by boats. 



Yesterday we broke up camp early to cross the moun- 



