62 East and West 
Adirondack pond—who was not drawn by a 
love of mystery. A pond is ocean enough for 
one summer, and he is indeed an explorer 
who has found all it has to give. For many 
there be who drift down the lake and make 
no discovery at all, but stare the marvellous 
facts in the face day after day without see- 
ing them. 
Long Lake, remote from railroads, is still 
a highway through the wilderness from 
Raquette to Saranac, and now and again, 
lone canoes appear at the river’s mouth, 
having carried around the falls and rapids, to 
silently slip down the lake, laden to the 
water’s edge with the weight of two men, 
their packs amidships. But all summer long, 
never a sail passes; always the graceful canoes, 
the silent paddles, the guide boats like water 
bugs. The canoists are in khaki and flannel 
shirts; hatless and tanned or burned scarlet. 
As a canoe holds only what is absolutely 
necessary, the canoists have divested them- 
selves of superfluous things—of most of their 
belongings in fact. In this little journey 
they perhaps come nearer to being free than 
at any other time in the longer journey of 
life. These slender canoes bear them in 
sight of that enchanted shore of Liberty 
