rtain and the mountains high.

We left our team at a farmhouse near the head of the Mill Brook, one
June afternoon, and with knapsacks on our shoulders struck into the
woods at the base of the mountain, hoping to cross the range that
intervened between us and the lake by sunset. We engaged a
good-natured but rather indolent young man, who happened to be
stopping at the house, and who had carried a knapsack in the Union
armies, to pilot us a couple of miles into the woods so as to guard
against any mistakes at the outset. It seemed the easiest thing in the
world to find the lake. The lay of the land was so simple, according
to accounts, that I felt sure I could go it in the dark. "Go up this
little brook to its source on the side of the mountain," they said.
"The valley that contains the lake heads directly on the other side."
What could be easier! But on a little further inquiry, they said we
should "bear well to the left" when we reached the top of the
mountain. This opened the doors again; "bearing well to the left" was
an uncertain performance in strange woods. We might bear so well to
the left that it would bring us ill. But why bear to the left at all,
if the lake was directly opposite? Well, not quite opposite; a little
to the left. There were two or three other valleys that headed in near
there. We could easily find the right one. But to make assurance
doubly sure, we engaged a guide, as stated, to give us a good start,
and go with us beyond the bearing-to-the-left point. He had been to
the lake the winter before and knew the way. Our course, the first
half hour, was along an obscure wood-road which had been used for
drawing ash logs off mountain in winter. There was some hemlock, but
more maple and birch. The woods were dense and free from underbrush,
the ascent gradual. Most of the way we kept the voice of the creek in
our ear on the right. I approached it once, and found it swarming with
trout. The water was as cold as one ever need wish. After a while the
ascent grew steeper, the creek became a mere rill that issued from
beneath loose, moss-covered rocks and stones, and with much labor and
puffing we drew ourselves up the rugged declivity. Every mountain has
its steepest point, which is usually near the summit, in keeping, I
suppose, with the providence that makes the darkest hour just before
day. It is steep, steeper, steepest, till you emerge on the smooth
level or gently rounded space at the top, which the