andscape rests, hushed everywhere, and indescribably
impressive. A few ducks are usually seen sailing on the lake, apparently
more for pleasure than anything else, and the ouzels at the head of the
rapids sing always; while robins, grosbeaks, and the Douglas squirrels
are busy in the groves, making delightful company, and intensifying the
feeling of grateful sequestration without ruffling the deep, hushed calm
and peace.

This autumnal mellowness usually lasts until the end of November. Then
come days of quite another kind. The winter clouds grow, and bloom, and
shed their starry crystals on every leaf and rock, and all the colors
vanish like a sunset. The deer gather and hasten down their well-known
trails, fearful of being snow-bound. Storm succeeds storm, heaping snow
on the cliffs and meadows, and bending the slender pines to the ground
in wide arches, one over the other, clustering and interlacing like
lodged wheat. Avalanches rush and boom from the shelving heights, piling
immense heaps upon the frozen lake, and all the summer glory is buried
and lost. Yet in the midst of this hearty winter the sun shines warm at
times, calling the Douglas squirrel to frisk in the snowy pines and seek
out his hidden stores; and the weather is never so severe as to drive
away the grouse and little nut-hatches and chickadees.

Toward May, the lake begins to open. The hot sun sends down innumerable
streams over the cliffs, streaking them round and round with foam. The
snow slowly vanishes, and the meadows show tintings of green. Then
spring comes on apace; flowers and flies enrich the air and the sod, and
the deer come back to the upper groves like birds to an old nest.

I first discovered this charming lake in the autumn of 1872, while on my
way to the glaciers at the head of the river. It was rejoicing then in
its gayest colors, untrodden, hidden in the glorious wildness like
unmined gold. Year after year I walked its shores without discovering
any other trace of humanity than the remains of an Indian camp-fire, and
the thigh-bones of a deer that had been broken to get at the marrow. It
lies out of the regular ways of Indians, who love to hunt in more
accessible fields adjacent to trails. Their knowledge of deer-haunts had
probably enticed them here some hunger-time when they wished to make
sure of a feast; for hunting in this lake-hollow is like hunting in a
fenced park. I had told the beauty of Shadow Lake only to a few friends,