In every
direction there were hills, and lying among them little lakes that
were fairy-like in their beauty. George pointed out the ridge of
mountains away to the southwest which he had crossed with Mr.
Hubbard, and where he thought they had crossed it from the head of
Beaver Brook, their "Big River," and I named them Lion Heart
Mountains.
The wind below cold on the mountain, and a shower passed over from
the northeast; but it was soon gone, and the sun set over the hills
in a blaze of red and gold. The way down seemed long, but when we
reached camp at 10.15 P.M. it was still quite light. Joe had been
fishing, and had four brook trout for my breakfast. Job and
Gilbert had gone down the valley prospecting, and soon came in with
the information that a mile below camp we could put our canoes into
the water. Beyond, there would be two short portages, and then we
should not again have to take them out of the water before reaching
Seal Lake.
After I went to my tent there floated out into the quiet night the
sound of the men's favourite hymns, "Lead Kindly Light," "There is
a Green Hill Far Away," "Abide With Me," and, as always, the
singing ended with their Indian "Paddling Song." When I put out my
light at 11 P.M., a full moon was throwing shadows of the spruce
boughs on my tent.
The view from the mountain-top seemed an inspiration to the party,
and on Monday morning, shortly after four, I heard Job's axe making
ready for the early breakfast. By 5.30 A.M. they were off with
their first packs. Then all was quiet again. The tiny mirror-like
lake was yet in shadow though sunlight touched the tops of its
encircling hills, and I wished that I might wait, till it was time
for me to go, on the summit of the one we had climbed last night.
When the last load was ready I, too, went forward.
It was a glorious morning, with just such sunshine one would wish
for a day so eventful. The trail led down into a valley opening
eastward to Seal Lake, and walled in on three sides by the hills.
On either hand reaching up their steep slopes were the spruce woods
with beautiful white birches relieving their sombreness, and above-
-the sheer cliffs. A network of little waterways gave back images
of delicate tamaracks [Larches] growing on long points between.
Not a leaf stirred, and silence, which is music, reigned there.
The valley was flooded with golden light, seeming to hold all in a
mysterious stillness, the only motion the rapids; the only sound
their singing, with now and again the clear call of a bird.
