THE NEW ADIRONDACKS 



which the road runs for a mile before it reaches Paul 

 Smith's, and cherishing the memory of Mr. Prime's 

 picture, as I neared the Saint Regis waters I listened 

 for the laugh of the loon and the wind among the 

 pines. So listening I suddenly stepped from the dark- 

 ness of the woods into a blaze of light which flashed 

 out from the countless windows of an enormous 

 wooden hotel, and which were reflected far out on the 

 waters of the lake. There was no laugh of the loon, 

 but the sound of oars in the rowlocks of numerous 

 boats, and of men and women's voices " with fashion, 

 not with feeling, softly freighted." Gone in an instant 

 was Mr. Prime's picture — vanished the dreams of the 

 sportsman — and I turned with a sigh to the comforts 

 of civilization and the atmosphere of New York or 

 Newport in the season. 



I had heard of the " camps " on the Saint Regis 

 waters, and rising soon after daybreak the next morn- 

 ing, I engaged a guide and was rowed by him in an 

 Adirondack boat across the Lower Saint Regis through 

 Spitfire Pond and around the beautiful wooded shores 

 of the Upper Saint Regis. The morning was very 

 beautiful. Far to the west the Saint Regis Mountains 

 lifted their pine-crowned peaks into the hazy blue, 

 while the sun, just risen, made the- dancing ripple of 

 the lake seem like ridges of burning gold. The wind 

 blew soft and cool, and there was that vigor and life in 

 the air which one only finds in the mountains at sun- 

 rise. A procession of boats laden with supplies for the 



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