On one side a bold mountain rears its green wall,
while the shores slope down to it as if eager to behold their
lovely forms in its crystal water. In places it is very narrow
and its windings seem more like a great river than a lake. It is
fed by Schroon river, along which are Schroon falls. Numerous
tents peeped from their guarding trees along its banks. How we
rejoiced in the refreshing shade of the forests and vistas,
revealing this "gleaming pearl set in emeralds," as some one has
appropriately called it. Its water is very pure and cold, and
fishermen will find ample compensation for all the time they
spend here, even though few fish are caught. Its crystal waters
are dotted with green islands.
The name Schroon was given this lake by the early French
settlers at Crown Point in honor of Madam Scarron, the widow of
a celebrated French dramatist and novelist, Paul Scarron. Along
the margin of this lake we saw a Sunday-school teacher who had
brought his class of boys for an outing. What lessons these
growing lads will imbibe from the beauty of Nature around them.
How can they help but think of the Creator when they dwell so
near the primal source of life. The crystal waters of the lake
will teach them purity, the leaves of the trees will rustle
messages of self-denial, and the majestic mountains will speak
to them of endurance and courage, a religion which dwells in
Nature until they, "like Moses, will see in the bushes the
radiant Deity and know they are treading on holy ground."
Wonderfully rich in lakes is this charming mountain region. No
other country is blessed with greater numbers of lovely lakes
than North America. Lake Placid, Echo, Loon, and a host of
others were encircled by green hills with sturdy evergreens,
graceful elms and scattered tents that framed them pleasantly.
Here amidst such sylvan beauty, where the air is rife with the
fragrance of birch and balsam, as you gaze at the Adirondacks
that lift their startling cliffs into the air, or farther along
the horizon stand bathed in a radiant glow, while a gold tangle
of sunset glitters among the white birch trees or casts a soft
sheen like the tints on a mourning dove's neck - pray tell me,
have you ever seen anything fairer than your own placid lakes?
On such evenings as these your thoughts will become as serene as
the lake and ripple now and then with a thousand vague, sweet
visions like its placid surface when dimpled by the leap of a
trout.
Morning here brings scenes almost as fair. Singing brooks flash
like silver across green valleys, the rays of the sun fall upon
the yellow and white birch boles that look mellow and rich as
"pillars of amber and gleaming pearl." The rocky ledges are
covered with lichens, ferns and mosses; myriads of campanula
look blue-eyed towards a bluer sky; and out over the lake white-
bellied swallows write poems of grace and beauty on the air. The
frescoes of dawn touch the tips of the eastern ranges whose
stern gray summits break into rosy flame.
We climbed to the summit of a towering mountain and a glorious
prospect met our view. Looking out over the billows of verdure
that seemed to be rolling down the mountains, we saw Lake
Placid, with its green islands, like a lovely painting in the
quiet morning light. Far as the eye can reach the forest-crowned
mountains stretched, now surging into summits, now sinking into
valleys, holding in their embrace the lovely Saranac lakes that
gleamed like the flashing of distant shields. Far beyond to the
south like a glittering mirror lay Tupper's lake, while farther
away the pointed pinnacles of the Adirondacks thrust themselves
boldly into the sky. Looking northward we beheld a lovely
cultivated region with meadows and grain fields. We also caught
sight of several towns, and glimpses of dark forests between the
billowy folds of other ranges, that melted into the sky. Like a
narrow band of light, Lake Champlain was just visible, while the
faint summits of the Green mountains with their misty veils
seemed like far, thin shadows.
CHAPTER XIV
LONG LAKE, LAKE GEORGE, AND SARATOGA
Long Lake is one of the most charming of any found in the
Adirondacks. Its islands are lovely beyond words to describe. No
artist, not even Turner, has ever caught the magic sheen that
clothes it, nor portrayed the rosy clouds the crimson west has
painted, that seem to hang motionless above it. Neither has
anyone caught those ethereal blues or royal purples that the
soft semi-light of evening makes upon its bosom where the darker
mountains seem to be floating.
But this lake requires not the aid of morning or evening to make
it fair. When the rays of the sun sprinkle the trees along its
sides like golden rain, or while stirred with darkening ripples
beneath a clouded sky, it is clothed in grandest beauty.
But if it were indeed possible for any lake to be fairer than
this, surely Lake George is that one. No wonder artists flock to
its shores, for what picturesque combinations of cove and cliff
they find there! Then, too, what lovely reaches, what mountain
views, what rich and varied combinations of forest with
retreating slopes bathed in the tender purple of distance!
The valleys were covered with a silvery, shimmering atmosphere,
on which we traced the outlines of meadows, forests, and lakes,
like the first sketching of an artist picture that ere long,
under our good genius the automobile, would grow into reality.
The road that wound among forest crowned hills was one of the
most pleasant we remember.
