LONG LAKE. 417 



November-like wind that howled down the gorges, made 

 a heavy tramp up the high precipitous sides and a 

 chilly bivouac at night on the shores seem too formi- 

 dable, and we concluded to turn back. It was very 

 solitary ; not a wing disturbed the surface of the lake — 

 not a deer could be seen on its shores. The settler back 

 told us we should see no deer, for the wolves had been 

 around in great quantities, making night hideous with 

 their howling, and driving the deer to safer, pleasanter 

 regions. 



It was swifter rowing down stream on our return, 

 and we reached our old quarters on Forked Lake by 

 dusk. The husband had returned the night before, and 

 welcomed us with true backwoods politeness. 



In the morning he accompanied us part way down 



the lake, and put his hounds out on the mountain to 



give us the pleasure of a deer-chase. But after waiting 



some time without hearing the cry of the dogs, we 



passed on towards the foot of the lake — only stopping 



long enough to take what trout we needed for dinner. 



The carrying-place, of a mile long, which on my first 



visit to the woods seemed so formidable, appeared now 



like a travelled highway, compared to the frightful ones 



I had just traversed. Long Lake looked like an old 



IS* 



