FOOTPATHS 219 
eral principles till he gladly, at last, allows you 
to pilot him. When we once got the lead we 
took him jubilantly on, and beginning to look 
for “The Philosopher's Camp,” found our- 
selves confronted by a large cedar-tree on the 
margin of a wooded lake. This was plainly the 
end of the path. Was the camp then afloat ? 
Our escort was in that state of hopeless igno- 
rance of which only lost guides are capable. 
We scanned the green horizon and the level 
water, without glimpse of human abode. It 
seemed an enchanted lake, and we looked about 
the tree trunk for some fairy horn, that we 
might blow it. That failing, we tried three rifle- 
shots, and out from the shadow of an island, on 
the instant, there glided a boat, which bore no 
lady of the lake, but a red-shirted woodsman. 
The artist whom we sought was on that very 
island, it seemed, sketching patiently while his 
guides were driving the deer. 
This artist was he whose “ Procession of the 
Pines ’’ had identified his fame with that delight- 
ful forest region. He it was who had laid out 
with artistic taste “The Philosopher’s Camp,” 
and who was that season still awaiting philoso- 
phers as well as deer. He had been there for a 
month, alone with the guides, and declared that 
nature was pressing upon him to an extent that 
almost drove him wild. His eyes had a certain 
