Mar., 1920 A RETURN TO THE DAKOTA LAKE REGION 67 
away on either side to the level horizon whose line was interrupted by the 
smoke of threshing engines and their output, beautifully modelled, delicately 
tinted straw stacks. 
Striking landscape features the straw stacks made, dotting the harvest 
fields from road to horizon, their varied crater-like outlines suggesting the cin- 
der cones of California and Arizona, with the parallellism of light ejected 
substances—straw and pummice—deposited in obedience to the vagaries of the 
wind. What pleasure to study their forms and to enjoy their soft straw colors 
as we sped by! Perhaps from their western suggestion on this big prairie, it 
was easy to imagine the hazy cloud lines along the horizon snowy mountain 
ranges and snow-capped peaks, far, far away. 
When we finally turned away from a purple line on the northwest, said to 
be the Juniata Hills, we turned toward a purple line on the northeast that 
rapidly developed into round wooded hills of glacial drift known as the Turtle 
Mountains. Passing through Rolette, where French names on signs corrobor- 
ated the statement that the section had been settled by French and Indians, 
we came back to the hunting season with a jolt, being told that seventy dollars 
worth of ammunition had been sold to hunters the night before! The migrat- 
ing Bank and Barn Swallows that we encountered were fortunately no desid- 
erata of the hunters, but probably much of the ammunition had already been 
expended in the mountains; for when, above Dunseith, we wound around 
among the wooded hills full of the promise of autumnal beauty and came upon 
lovely blue woodland lakes, their waters and shore were bare of life. 
After my summer on the open prairie, these wooded hills with their olive- 
skinned cottonwoods, their white-barked aspens, and their homelike elms and 
box elders showing touches of yellow and brown, their red-fruited mountain 
ash and thorn-apple, their enriching masses of purple asters and goldenrod, to- 
gether with their unexpected little lakes, were most grateful and satisfying. 
As the road wound through the woods, to our surprise, we came upon an at- 
tractive little hay slough in an encircling arm of timber, the voices of the hay- 
makers reaching us as they built up their stack on the flat creek bottom. Just 
beyond we came to the most charming lake of all that we saw, a beautiful body 
of quiet water, within the seclusion of the woods; its low tree border reflected 
in the lake, small clouds standing stationary above it. Would that we might 
see it when the fall colors were reflected in their full glowing richness! Se- 
questered bays leading back suggested intimate outlets wandering away into 
the golden privacy of the autumnal woodland; curving sandspits offered cool 
unruffled pools for diving water fowl; while in the farther reaches of the lake, 
black tule marsh afforded safe shelter for tender young. A few Grebes were 
diving along shore and a string of Ducks rested at a safe distance out in the 
lake, but the hunters had already been that way and while no shots disturbed 
the quiet of the beautiful place, few of its startled tenants had returned, and 
those were sadly watchful. 
While a few of the hill birds, such as Chewinks, Junecos, and White-breast- 
ed Nuthatches were seen, the most notable bird found in the mountains was a 
Sandhill Crane, discovered by my friends on the shore of a remote, unnamed 
lake in the woods. The great pink-capped grayish brown bird, standing about 
four feet high, held its ground for a few moments, but then, too much alarmed 
by this invasion of its secret haunts, took flight, going off with long neck out- 
stretched. An old man of the mountains who also saw it, remarked sententious- 
