wooded peaks. Under the rays of the setting sun its bosom was shot with
arrows of pale, quivering gold. Banners of gold and flame-color floated
over the crests of the hills, flinging streamers of light down their
emerald sides.

"Fellows, there is Moosehead Lake; and I guess you'll find few lakes in
America or elsewhere that can beat it for beauty," said Cyrus, with a
patriotic thrill in his voice, for he had a feeling that he was doing
the honors of his country.

His English comrades were warm with admiration, and here, in view of the
forest-land which was their El Dorado, tingled with anticipation of the
unknown.

The three rested that night at Greenville, and began their tramping on
the following morning. They trudged a distance of seven miles or so to
the camp of Ebenezer Grout, which, as Garst knew, was situated between
Squaw Pond and Old Squaw Mountain, the latter being one of the finest
peaks near Moosehead Lake.

"Uncle Eb" was an old acquaintance of Cyrus's, a dusky, lively woodsman,
who spent a great part of the year in his lone bark hut, with his dog
Tiger for company. He subsisted chiefly on what he brought down with his
rifle, and sometimes earned three dollars a day for guiding tourists up
Old Squaw or through the adjacent forests.

[Illustration: "THERE IS MOOSEHEAD LAKE."]

He was not an ambitious hunter, and rarely pushed far into the solitudes
of the wilderness in search of moose or other big game. A coon hunt was