MARY LAKE 91 



is a house on it, the only one on the lake, which 

 shyly peeps through a tangle of balsam tamaracks 

 and the closer foliage of the sugar maple. My first 

 view of this exquisite spot gave the impression of 

 being the finest forest and water scenery that I had 

 ever beheld, and in the ten thousand miles I travelled 

 I saw nothing more beautiful. 



The steamer, which to the uninitiated seemed 

 to be heading recklessly for a leafy bank, gave a 

 sharp turn, and a foliage-smothered waterway opened 

 up before us. So unexpected was our approach that 

 the prow of the steamer ran amongst a flock of wild 

 duck, which rose in alarm and with rapid stroke of 

 wings flew off, loudly protesting against this rude 

 invasion of their sanctuary. 



Mary Lake is a two-hours' sail from Huntsville 

 Peninsula, with a railway portage lying between. 

 It was late when we started, and the night fell 

 suddenly, enveloping all the beauties that evening 

 unveiled. The searchlight of the steamer made a 

 vivid path across the lake. Its restless rays swept 

 the water, focusing a leafy island, disclosing a 

 dangerous reef, as if exposing its sinister intent, and 

 calling on the pilot to beware. The border of the 

 lake, far off, was picked out against the dark trees, 

 and the patches on the bare rocks, made by the 

 lapicida lichens, came into view. At length the 

 landing-stage was discovered, and all its detail, 

 including a peach basket with red netting, suspended 



