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THE WISCONSIN MAGAZINE
ly toward the lake. It lay in the pale light,
white, mysterious, unshining. The cliffs
hung over it, like somber, protecting giants.
  As he stood gazing into the unchang-
ing depths, the words of the Indian story-
teller came to his mind. "And when the
miserable murderer looked into the white
lake, the death-face of his victim looked
back at him."
  With a chocking cry, he glanced over
his shoulder.  Issuing from  the black
shelter of the trees, was a tall, white horse.
With the sickening suddenness of a falling
mass of earth, the man dropped on the
ground.
  As the dawn was breaking next day, the
sheriff and a party of men broke through
the trees near the Lake of the Echoes.
  'Why, there's that white horse of La
Mar's now," exclaimed he, as he caught
sight of the animal that was standing near
the lake. "And look here! I tell you this
solemn place is too much for any man with
a drop of Indian blood in him, when the
echoes get to working and the wolves and
mounotain-lions are howling in the forest.'-
  The men gathered around in a curious
and somewhat awed Gircle; for, there on the
ground, with one hand in the water, lay the
half-breed La Mar, dead, punished by a
power swifter and far more terrible than,
tl e arm of the law.
WHERE EVERY PROSPECT PLEASES
  Rough, untrodden wilderness, with no
trails, no inhabitants, not a trace of man.
A region plentiful in game, its streams
teeming with trout, and all far away from
the beaten track, a virgin country. These
had been the promises of my guide. . Two
days on an ocean steamer, four hours by
rail, three hours on an ox trail, and two
miles by canoe, had brought me gradually
far from the zone of typewriters, skyscrap-
ers, newspapers, and finally, man. How I
would glory in it. The tales I would tell
to the boys at the office, of ten days in the
woods, of fishing in black shady trout pools
with a speckled beauty on every cast, and
the best of it all, away from men. But alas,
it was not to endure. My dream of soli-
tude, the enchantment of civilization-left-
behind, was doomed. My guide, squatted
on his haunches, was slicing bacon into a
sizzling frying pan. I strolled about, pros-
pecting. Not forty rods from our camp, at
the foot of a mighty hacmetac tree, in what
I. in my delusion, had supposed to be a vir-
gin country, lay a half empty box of fresh
Uneeda Biscuits.-C. J. A. in the "Williams.
Literary Monthly."
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