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.