which only lost guides are capable.
We scanned the green horizon and the level water, without glimpse of human abode.
It seemed an enchanted lake, and we looked about the tree-trunk for some fairy horn, that we might blow it. That failing, we tried three rifle-shots, and out from the shadow of an island, on the instant, there glided a boat, which bore no lady of the lake
, but a red-shirted woodsman.
The artist whom we sought was on that very island, it seemed, sketching patiently while his guides were driving the deer.
This artist was he whose “Procession of the pines” had identified his fame with that delightful forest region.
He it was who had laid out with artistic taste “The philosopher's camp,” and who was that season still awaiting philosophers as well as deer.
He had been there for a month, alone with the guides, and declared that Nature was pressing upon him to an extent that almost drove him wild.
His eyes had a certain remote and questioning look that belongs to imaginative men who dwell alone.
It seemed an impertinence to ask him to come out of his