UP THE LAKE

THERE was one prospector at Porter’s Landing. He
escorted us round the silent village, and we climbed
to the top of the hill to look southward along Dease
Lake. A stiff breeze was driving white waves to-
ward us between the sloping shore-lines. The noise
of their breaking came uphill with the wind
through the rustling screen of trees. The sky and the
lake were very blue.

It was mid-afternoon, and we decided to wait for
the wind to drop before setting off up the lake. We
sat in the prospector’s cabin, eating bread and cheese
with him. The sun streamed in upon us, and doors
of deserted cabins banged in the wind. The noise of
the motor still dcummed in our ears, and our eyes
were tired by long hours of river-work, so that we
were glad to sit and listen to the prospector’ s the-
ories about astrology, placer-mining and the habits
of bears. We also heard some of the recent gossip
from Telegraph, and learned of the arrival of placer
men at Laketon.

At about eight o’clock we went down to the
wharf. The lake was calm, and the sky was turning

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