150 BOOK OF A HUNDRED BEARS 



They know it. No fish would harrow my feelings 

 by making me his executioner. 



Not three hundred feet from us two soldiers 

 pulled out a half dozen big ones within a half hour. 

 Nearby, even a woman (and women are the worst 

 of fishers, except for men) caught two, while we 

 watched the lake slip tranquilly down to the 

 beginning of the Yellowstone River, all unmindful 

 of the rugged path it must soon travel. It was a 

 heavenly day. The lake crinkled and smiled 

 at us. Little mountain airs sifted down from the 

 high peaks and the never-melting snows. Even 

 Chuck and Spot were tamed — forbore to fuss 

 with each other or to contradict their elders. We 

 caught no fish, but we had a lovely day just the 

 same. 



All about the Lake Hotel are charming spots — 

 some by road over those splendid highways, 

 and others by launch or row boats. One could 

 idle away weeks there and see something always 

 new, morning and night, as the sun rises or the 

 moon goes down; find new paintings of cloud and 

 shadow and rose and pink; new mountain effects 

 or old ones retouched by a master hand. 



