CHAPTER III 



THE ANGLER'S STORY 



THE nights grow cold in September and 

 October around the Klamath country. The 

 days were still radiant and warm, but the sum- 

 mit of Pitt a splendid volcano cone, over to 

 the west, was now always white with snow. The 

 pines and other trees looked darker, in the 

 shadows which raced across the lake of dreams, 

 the rays that painted the Modoc hills with ver- 

 milion were deeper in tint and tone. The tules 

 had been nipped by the frost and had lost their 

 vivid greens, and hung in the wind, or crackled 

 as the ducks and geese rustled through them, 

 like banners in red and gold. The water of the 

 thousand springs grew cooler, and one imagined 

 a greater, stronger flow. Ducks, geese, jacksnipe 

 were going south; long lines could be seen every 

 day, above the black forests of the Cascade, and 

 every little river, inlet, and bay had its voyagers, 

 while out in the lake proper, great ghostly cotton- 

 like masses told of the white pelican already 

 thinking of some warmer clime. 



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