A LONELY LAKE . 
29 
age to the day-star. This lake is a rendezvous 
for all that is wildest and freest in the animal 
life of the region. It is sufficient unto itself, 
and yields no tribute save to its lord the sun. 
Around it, high glacial walls stand, crowned 
with ancient oaks and graceful birches. No 
stream flows from it, or into it, unless threads 
of ice-cold water coming from springs in its 
banks are called streams. Its waters are deep, 
the fisherman, so they say, finding places in its 
centre where long lines reach no bottom. Seen 
from the peak of Chocorua, this lake, even in 
November, is as green as an emerald, and when 
one floats upon its surface and gazes far down 
into its depths, rich green water-weeds are seen 
stretching their tremulous fingers towards him, 
and crowding each other for standing-room on 
its muddy floor. 
Many are the days I have spent at this lonely 
lake learning the secrets of its tenants, and this 
morning, soon after the auroral beauties had 
faded from the sky, I came to it while the dew 
sparkled on the ferns. Drifting with the wind 
on the water, or stretched on the soft mosses 
which flourish under the birches, I stayed by 
the lake until evening. If an observer keeps 
still, it matters little whether he sits hidden 
under the spreading branches of a great oak on 
the shore, or lies upon a raft anchored in the 
