126 DAYS IN THE OPEN 



an illustration in wood of the law of evolution. 

 Great barns stand guard on the east and south. 

 Hard by, a cold brook gurgles and laughs on its 

 way to the lake a few rods distant. Take your 

 stand facing the west, and declare your vision. 

 Fifteen miles away, on the western border of the 

 lake, Squaw Mountain lifts its ragged line against 

 the sky. On the left, and close at hand, bold hills 

 bound the view, clothed with timber to their very 

 tips. Far to the north, Spencer Bay Mountain lies 

 like a giant haystack. The waters of the lake 

 dimple and flash in the sunlight, the air is filled 

 with the drowsy hum of insects, and over all is 

 peace. In the words of the ancient hymn, one 

 sings, 



" This is the place I long have sought 

 And mourned because I found it not." 



Now that we are here, what shall we do ? Rest ? 

 Yes, but it cannot be the rest of inactivity. The 

 woods are calling to us and the waters tempt us. 

 The trout are jumping in the pool just beyond the 

 big stump, and a deer is feeding in the meadow 

 yonder. Great herons fly lazily along the shores 

 of the bay, or go on frog-hunting expeditions 

 among the rushes. Surely, there is something 

 better to do than to loll on the porch, and the first 

 important task is to interview those impertinent 

 trout. Leaders are brought out and soaked, flies 

 selected, the Leonard rod jointed and everything 



