noise? Oh, what a doleful sound! I can't do it,
Mr. Smith.'

"Waal," says I, "Mr. Waddy, I guess you
and me 'd better go home, your feelin's is too
tender to go a hunting."

It was late in the afternoon before we arrived
at the shanty again. There were heavy clouds in
the sky, and there was an ominous moaning in the
forest. Supper over, we set about repairing our
roof with the bark of a large hemlock, until we
were driven in by the rain. Soon the terrific
thunder and lightning obliged us to abandon our
cherished plan of night hunting, and, after a
pipe and a few yarns from Paul, we turned in.
Towards morning I awoke, to find myself lying
in a puddle of water, and feeling, withal, very
miserable. I expressed aloud my not flattering
opinion touching the shanty, as I stepped out to
the fire; by the side of which Warren was
stretched on a log, in the midst of the drenching
rain.

"Go way, ole shanty," said he, laughing,
"you ain't nowheres. Here's comfort! It
melts just as fast as it falls, and runs right off.
I b'lieve dis yere roast's a getting done too much
on one side," said he, turning himself over.

So I found the boat, and paddled out into the
lake to warm myself by exercise. As soon as
day broke, we called a council, and agreed to
return and go to St. Regis Lake, which was at
that time unoccupied, but which, as it was now
the middle of the season, might be seized upon by
some one before us if we delayed.

Hurrah for St. Regis! It was a beautiful
morning after the two days' rain when we rowed
up that broad river, six miles, through Spitfire
Pond, and into that superb lake, always
overshadowed by those noble mountains. St. Regis
Lake is one of the grandest of the region, and
comparatively little visited. Sixteen miles of
unbroken forest make its margin, numerous
islands stud its surface, and high mountains
frown upon it from every side. What a week we
passed there! We leaped and halloed like
madmen. Hurrah! No more artificial restraints,
not even a fence! Our log-shanty, on an island
in the middle of the lake, was a model one, perfectly
new. Its owner, or rather its builder,
was a friend and patron of Smith, and kindly
offered it to us. By day our hounds bayed in
the forest, while we watched on some shady
point for the deer to come into the lake, with a
smudge near by to keep off "dem ere disreputable
midges," as Warren called them. These
midges were our chief, I had almost said our only,
annoyance. They are a very minute fly that
appears in swarms, filling the air, and finding
its way through and beneath the clothing
to every part of the skin, causing to some
persons more irritation than the mosquito. They
were particularly fond of the black boy, so that
in any doubtful case we would refer to him to
know if there were any midges about. At night
some mysterious agency seemed to impel us,
as we glided, without a sound from the paddle,
through the level black, starting at the white
statues which our fancy made of the upturned
roots of fallen pines. Marble-like they burst
out of the black air as our light struck upon
them. Then the challenging "whistle" and
stamp of the deer, the silent rapid movement
towards the shore, the startling splash of
the otter, disturbed to his slumber; then the two
balls of fire in a ghastly outline of deer, and the
crack of the rifle, which, waking a hundred echoes
in those wilds, made our hearts leap into our
throats; then a silence, stunning as the report,
and a darkness, dazzling as the flash.

At last we set out for Tupper's Lake, fifty
miles distant. We took, besides rifle-guns and
ammunition, our blankets, hatchet, and
compass, salt pork and hard bread, tea, sugar,
stewpan, and teapot. We had also two guides
and two boats. The latter, long graceful
lapstreaks, roomy and stiff, yet so light that a man
with a neck yoke can carry one, half a mile.
(The canoe, since the departure of the Indians,
is little used; though light to carry, it is too
crank for comfort on a long row.) We took
Warren as cook. His droll conceits and rollicking
good humour, his grotesque attitudes and
grimaces, and his great muscular strength and
agility, made him a valuable addition to the
party. His negro partiality for long words
was always amusing. Camping at a little pond
called Bon-bon one night, we applied ourselves
in Warren's absence to make some tea which
should be better than the miserable decoction
known as black tea, or camp tea, made by the
guides. We had, of course, but one kind of
tea, but we filled the teapot with the leaves,
and then poured on boiling water, and allowed it
to simmer. When Warren returned, we asked
him to try it. "Golly," said he, "dat ere's
intosticating—dis nigger's inebriated." Often
afterwards he referred to that tea. " Now, gen'lemen,
dere's three kinds of tea at dis Metropolitan
Hotel. In de first place, dere's Bon-bon tea;
den dere's black tea; and den dere's camp tea.
Now, doctors, what kind of tea do you diagnosticate
upon to-day?" On the way down the
Racquette, he spied some ruffed grouse, and
one of us lent him a fowling-piece to shoot
them. They were in a tree, and, more
singular still, allowed him to kill them one after
another without offering to fly. "Warren,"
said I, "you'll never make a sportsman; you
pointed your gun at each partridge full a minute
before you could make up your mind to fire."
"I knowed we was out of grub," said he,
grinning, "and so I took aim at dem fellers wid
de eye of despair. I wanted to make anoder of
dem inexceptionable stews."

We traversed the St. Regis Ponds, a
succession of beautiful woodland lakes, and passed
over seven carrys to Little Clear Pond. Then
we poled down the river Sticks, as it is facetiously
named by the hunters, on account of the number
of snags in it, to Upper Saranac Lake. This
is nearly fifteen miles in length, and presents
mountain, lake, and forest scenery of the grandest
description. As we entered it at nightfall, we
were all reminded of Landseer's picture of
The Sanctuary. On our left arose the whole