VACHEL punctuates most of his remarks with a wild native yell--“Whoopee Whuh!” but he was down to a whisper now, and could no longer move the mountains with a “Hurrah for Bryan.” Silently and rather mournfully we diagonalised downward to a far blue lake which was the ultimate end of the valley, and the source of the stream we had followed for days. Devastating winds blew across us, and we watched how they descended upon the surface of that lake and tore it off in sprays and circles of water and steam. We found what seemed to be a horse trail over the shingle, but it led to an extensive field of snow, and we recognised only the footsteps of a bear. The lake was not blue, but green when we got near to it, and was banked on three sides by snow. Said Vachel: “Here, Stephen, is the place to catch a fish.” I said: “No, Vachel, this is just a snow-melt; there never were any fish here.” “Nevertheless try!” said the poet. Now we had purchased fishing tackle, though we had no rods. And Vachel had a large red wooden grasshopper, and I had a large green one. Vachel said: “You must throw your grasshopper in, and I’ll go light a fire so as to be ready to cook the fish.” So I fastened my fat green wooden gentleman to the gut, and the gut to the line, and attaching a stone, flung him in the air. Behold, he flew like a grasshopper and disported with the winds. But when he settled at last on the surface of that green and snowy lake, he always made a most rapid progress toward the shore. I sailed him like a boat. No fish came, and even our faith remained unrewarded. Was not this adventure prophetically put in verses in _Alice_, where some one sent a message to the fish, telling them, this is what I wish. And the little fishes’ answer was--“We cannot do it, sir, because,”--the little fishes, as was disclosed later, were in bed. We sat down together in a place like the heath in Macbeth, and the weird sisters were ready to appear, had we been evil. The sun had set, winds were blowing from four directions at the same time, and it was bitterly cold. A tiny fire of roots peeped at us and smoked and chattered, and we tried hard to get warm at it. We looked at the mountain-walls, we looked at our maps and compasses. We thought of the night and of our empty wallets and insides. “Just think of Broadway at this minute,” said Vachel. “Still sweltering in heat, not yet lighted up for evening pleasure.” We felt far from civilisation, and sighed at last for what we despised. “Or think of Piccadilly and Shaftesbury Avenue,” said I, “all a-swarm with the light-hearted summer crowd of London.” “Well, we can’t sleep here,” said I at length. “Let us make one last attempt to get over to the other side.” Vachel seemed surprised, but agreed with alacrity: “I’m for it,” said he. [Illustration]