34 



RECREA TIOX. 



lumbus of old, to discover the unknown. 

 Shaping my course to a mighty promon- 

 tory. I took my field glasses, and scanned 

 the surrounding wilderness. 



Far to the West, and down. down, thou- 

 sands of feet below among the pines, glis- 

 tened a lake, large and beautiful. 



There I would go, and there I went. The 

 beach was like the ocean, but dented by in- 

 numerable tracks of elk and bear. The lake 

 seemed fully a mile wide, while the 3 lower 

 sides were surrounded by primeval forests 

 sloping gently to the shore. From the up- 

 per end, where I sat silently on my horse, 

 stretched a broad, level, peaceful valley. 

 Even-where profound silence, save the soft 

 lapping of the waves. I stood closer to nat- 

 ure's heart that day. than ever before. As 

 I looked up the valley, a feeling of power 

 and exultation, of peace and home swept 

 over me; and for once I was supremely 

 happy. 



It was growing late, and turning, I rode 

 reluctantly up the park like plain. Sud- 

 denly I came to the banks of a broad shal- 

 low stream, whose placid waters scarcely 

 moved. There were no bushes on its sides, 

 and for all the world it seemed like a canal, 

 fashioned by the hand of man. Here in 



this sublimely quiet valley, where you could 

 almost feel the pulse beat of Eternity, a 

 rushing, boisterous mountain stream would 

 have seemed sacrilegious. Following up 

 this strange waterway, I saw numberless 

 mountain trout of mammoth size, floating 

 lazily along, undisturbed even by my 

 strange presence. The valley gradually nar- 

 rowed, and about 2 miles above the large 

 lake, it terminated in a smaller one, which 

 was surrounded by rugged hills, whence 

 burst forth countless springs. The waters 

 were quite clear, and I could see thousands 

 of mountain trout, great big fellows, swim- 

 ming about. 



Reluctantly I returned to camp, full of 

 enthusiasm over my discovery. The next 

 day we packed 2 mules, and I guided most 

 of the party back to this enchanted spot, 

 where we fished and spent the night. There 

 was but little sport in fishing. It required 

 no skill to catch them, for they would bite 

 at anything as fast as one could haul them 

 in, and they seemed too fat and lazy, even 

 to fight when hooked. 



To-day this is called Brooks' lake, and 

 is a famous resort for sportsmen, but this 

 is the first account I have ever given of its 

 discovery. 



THE BIRD DOG. 



The bird dog family is divided into 2 

 classes, the pointer and the setter. The 

 pointer is a tall, short haired dog followed 

 by a tail in all kinds of weather. The steady 

 business of this dog is prospecting for 

 chickens. He is lifted into a wagon early in 

 the morning, carried into the country, and 

 when a promising place is found, he is told 

 to hie on. If he is asleep or for some other 

 reason does not " hie," he is given a boost 

 that greatly assists him over the wagon 

 wheel into the grass. After he strikes the 

 ground he throws his head up in the air and 

 starts to run like a clock oiled with butter. 

 "When he strikes the scent his nose is worn 

 on the ground and his tail is worked like a 

 town pump handle on circus day. 



' The dog has chickens," says the man 

 who has borrowed a No. 10 gun and bought 

 No. 12 shells. 



" Sure thing," says the man who owns the 

 dog, as he jumps over the back wheel with 

 his gun in one hand and some goose shells 

 in the other. The dog lifts up his head, starts 

 across a piece of plowed ground, gets up a 

 meadow lark and chases it into a pasture. 

 The barb wire fence catches the dog by the 

 ear and he hollers like a steamboat fed on 

 soft coal. The dog gets back into the rig, 

 bleeds over the dressed up hunter's pants 

 and shakes the blood over his white shirt" 

 which has not been vaccinated against blood. 



The man who owns the dog gets in with an 

 explanation. He says the meadow lark 

 smells like the prairie hen and the best dog 

 gets fooled on it. 



The man with the ruined shirt dares to in- 

 quire if the dog is blind, or hasn't been wire 

 fence broke. The owner of the rig says he 

 will get out and shoot a hawk. He stuffs 

 the gun full of shells and blazes away with 

 both barrels. The hawk swoops 2 or 3 

 times and sails off better than ever. Just 

 then 9 chickens get up in front of the horses 

 and the hawk shooter tries to get a shell into 

 his gun. brass end first. The chickens get 

 away without a shot being fired at them. 

 One is marked down and the setter dog is 

 lifted out. This dog has long hair and a tail 

 like a fly fan. He likes to roll in mud pud- 

 dles and dead steers. After a proper roll he 

 smells like a soap factory leaning against a 

 glue mill. In this condition he is not fit for 

 the parlor. The setter runs around for a 

 while and begins to dig for a gopher. He is 

 a borrowed dog and gets kicked. Then he 

 starts over the hills for home on a dead run. 

 About the first thing he runs into is the lone 

 chicken, and the man with the No. 10 gun 

 and small shells is busy getting ready to 

 shoot. He finds out where he has made a 

 mistake and makes a terrible roar. Then 

 the party drives home by way of the meat 

 market and talks of many things en route. 



