XIII. 



THREE BOTTLES OF CLARET. 



IT had been a delicious afternoon on Profile Lake; one 

 of those days when the very glory of the other country 

 seems to come down among our mountains. The little 

 lake had presented, as usual on such evenings, a gay and 

 brilliant scene. It was a lake of Paradise. A dozen boats 

 were out with parties of ladies or with anglers, some of 

 the latter fishing with floats and worms, some casting flies, 

 and now and then getting up fair trout. I had passed 

 the time after a fashion that is somewhat lazy and luxu- 

 rious, lying at full length in the bottom of my boat, drift- 

 ing idly around while I read an old book, occasionally 

 sinking into a doze and dreaming. As evening came 

 down the various parties left the lake, and at last in the 

 twilight Dupont came up in his boat alongside of mine, 

 and we found ourselves, as often before, alone on the 

 lake. 



Among all my memories of trout-fishing there are none 

 more pleasant than the memories of those evenings on 

 Profile Lake, when my friend and I, with our boats at 

 anchor a few rods apart, have cast our flies long after the 

 darkness prevented our seeing their fall, and whether we 

 got rises or not were content to see the stars come over 

 the mountains, or the moonlight descend into the ravine 

 and silver the surface of the lake. 



