States. Mr. Lansdale speaks five different Indian languages, having been brought up among the Indians of the West, and he is familiar with all their legends.

"They believe," he said, "that a beaver made this lake; their tradition goes that one of their great medicine men passed from earth, but did not die, and that the Great Spirit turned him into a mammoth beaver. Returning to earth, he found the St. Joe river too narrow for him to turn round in, so he dammed up the stream, throwing great sandbars across the river Iwith his tail."

We learned from the steward the true story of how the Coeur d'Alene Indians got their name; it was given them by the Hudson Bay trappers, the real meaning of

the word being "Heart of an Awl," and so, figuratively, "sharp, shrewd traders."

Mr. Lansdale has in his possession the first map (made by his father) of the famous Bunker Hill-Sullivan mine near Lake Coeur d'Alene; this mine is the greatest lead and silver producer in the world, having paid a dividend of more. than ten million in the fifteen years since its discovery. All this could have belonged to our steward had his father not considered the prospect worthless, and abandoned the claim. Fifteen years later, it was again on the point of being abandoned, when a belligerent pack-mule pawed up the grass and exposed a rich vein of pure galena, the end of which has never been found. Many other fabulously

rich mines have been discovered in the vicinity of this one, the annual output in. a radius of twelve miles being from fifteen to twenty-one million dollars in a territory occupied by only about eight thousand inhabitants.

As the steward was telling us this interesting history, our boat approached a picturesque little town perched high on the hillside. "This is the town of Harrison," said Mr. Lansdale. "It is the place where you take the train for the great mines I have been telling you about."

At Harrison, the Coeur d'Alene river, flowing with liquid lead, empties into the lake, bringing as tribute a fortune in solution every year, the loss from the flumes at the mines. These lead-laden waters are death to animal and vegetable life; a dog or cat drinking from it dies. Just below Harrison, the lake narrows down into the St. Joe river, which is said to be the highest (above sea-level) of any navigable stream in the world. It is certainly the most crooked river in existence, as well as being extremely narrow; it averages about thirty feet in width, while in many places it is two hundred feet deep. So clear and calm and motionless are its waters that the wonderful reflections of the rare scenery on its placid surface hold one spell-bound. Peeking through the marginal fringe on the river bank, you can see mountains five and ten miles away clearly reflected, an effect produced being that of a continuous moving picture show in the water as the boat moves along. No wonder the river is called "The Shadowy St. Joe." As you wind and wind, new and surprising beauties flash on the eye at every turn, and the course of the river is full of turns.

Before our engaging steward excused himself to see after the dinner, he took us up into the pilot house and introduced us to Captain Eli Laird, who proved to be a prince of entertainers: he is an unspoiled son of nature, having spent his early life. as a lumber-jack: his personality is as refreshing as a breath of old briny, and he possesses a gift of native wit and eloquence which should have made a famous orator of him. Wondering at his eloquent, though provincial flow of language, we asked him how long he had gone to school.

"I went to school one day in my uncle's

place," he replied. The exhibition of logging jargon he gave was quite interesting, though almost wholly unintelligible to us, when our boat was suddenly stopped by a huge lumber boom which was being towed down the river. Our big boat was jammed against the river bank, tearing off the limbs of some of the trees, the remarkable depth of the stream permitting the vessel to lie closely alongside the bank; here we waited an hour or more for the brail of logs to pass.

Captain Laird always carries a gun in the corner of his little pilot room to shoot deer with along the route. He told us that in the eleven years he had been on the boat that he had shot fifty deer from the pilot house windows.

As we rounded Black Rock Point, which place marks the beginning of the Coeur d'Alene Indian Reservation, Reservation, recently opened by the United States Government to settlers, Captain Laird pointed out an object about the size of the pilot house up in the top of a giant pine.

"This," he said, "is an eagle's nest over a hundred years old. The oldest Indian on the Reservation says it was there when he was a little boy. Many's the time I've seen: Old Baldy sitting there hatching out her eggs, and I remember one time when I tried to steal her young ones-she nearly killed me. I never was so scared in my life. I'd rather tackle a bear with cubs any day. That ended my investigations of the eagle's family tree."

As we steamed down the river, a railroad drawbridge opened to let our boat pass. It is claimed that this drawbridge has the highest elevation of any found in the world.

to be

The steward came up and announced dinner, so we were conducted to a charming dining salon, where we were served with an old-fashioned chicken dinner, including every variety of food the season afforded. We sat where we could obtain. bewitching views of the passing scenery. When we reached Lake Chatcolet, our steward got off to make his customary catch of fish with which to serve his guests on the boat next day.

We passed on until we reached Hell's Half Acre, a rendezvous for bear and cougar, that would rival the jungles of Africa in the density of its undergrowth. Few

white men, we were told, had ever penetrated it.

Near Chatcolet is the only straight stretch in the river; it extends about two miles, and is called by the Indians "The Long Lookem." Wild horses used to roam on the level meadow land along the river at this point, which stretch used to serve the Indians as a race track, until the Jesuit fathers came along and taught them the folly of horse racing. The last of these wild horses were caught only in 1907. The Indians, it is said, would bet everything they had on a horse race. When they had gambled away all their other possessions they even bet their squaws as a last resort. A story is told of "Spotted Louis," a warrior chief of the d'Alene Indians, who at the close of a horse-race meet had thirteen squaws to his credit.

Coeur

next turn the river makes it almost loops itself, taking three miles to get around a railroad tunnel only 450 yards in length. Here the river is so very crooked that the boat ahead often looks as if it were coming directly toward one. We saw large fields of peppermint in cultivation along the river. These peppermint beds are said. to rival the famous fields of Michigan, and fortunes are in store for the men who are cultivating this shy herb.

From almost every point along the journey, Mt. Baldy, 7,000 feet high, was visible in the distance. Soon we reached another little town, called St. Marie's, which looked like a Swiss village. Here the St. Marie's river, after almost looping itself several times, finds its way into the St. Joe.

St. Marie's is essentially a lumber town, being in the center of the largest body

"Spotted Louis" is still alive, and says he had a "Skookum horse," that he was "big-man-Louis-had-thirteen-wives."

On a ledge a quarter of a mile from the river at the Long Lookem is the spot on which the priests pitched their tents and established the first mission among their tribe of Indians.

The crumbling chimneys of the rude huts occupied by the Hudson Bay trappers can be seen near here from the boat. That this one straight stretch in the river was appreciated both by saint and savage can be realized, when you see that the very

of white pine timber in the world. Certainly Nature has given this little town one of the most exquisite settings imaginable. St. Marie's Peak rises in bold grandeur from an encircling arm of the river.

After going to the head of navigation, our return voyage brought us late in the afternoon to our cozy houseboat near Chatcolet, which the steward had kindly secured for us. Chatcolet is a small lake just to the right of the river, and it abounds in a great variety of fish and game. Several thousand acres of territory

adjoining this lake have been reserved by the State as a park, which is filled at present with big game such as bear, deer, including two species of the mule deer and white elk, moose, mountain lions, mountain goats, wild cats and coyotes. Among the small game to be found about the lake are almost every variety of duck, including teal, mallard, canvasback and butterballa white duck of exquisite flavor-wild. geese, big gray geese, snipe, blue grouse really a branch of the turkey familypheasants, Virginia rail, great bittern, little bittern, magpies and swan; fish such as lake trout, mountain trout, char or bull trout, black bass, perch and white fish, are found in abundance. This spot is destined to become one of the most famous playgrounds in America-it will soon known as the Paradise of American Sportsmen.

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Near our houseboat stood Indian Pete's gaily decorated tepee reflected in the water's edge. He makes his living hunting and fishing, so we soon made friends with him and took lessons in the best methods of trout fishing and shooting the game that haunts the lake. It was ideal, cruising up and down the river in our houseboat, and canoeing on the lake. We made the acquaintance of many campers who owned other houseboats or summer cottages on the lake. We counted two hundred houseboats strewn up and down. the river.

One day we rowed to Silver Beach near Beauty Bay on the lake, and found an. ideal spot for bathing, the water was so clear and calm that the pebbles on the bottom could be seen at a depth of ten feet or

more.

Having fastened our boat to the landing, we made an excursion into the pine woods, and suddenly we came upon the quaintest, most rustic little dwelling we had ever seen. It was built of rough pines with balustrades, grillwork and jardiniere stands made of knarled and twisted twigs from the forest. Even a rustic writing table of the same design stood on the inviting-looking though tiny veranda. Moose horns hung over the doorway. A palette and easel under a nearby tree told the story of the occupant beyond a shadow of a doubt. Our expressions of admiration over this sylvan retreat attracted the at

tention of the owner, who came smilingly to the door and invited us to come inside. Our host proved to be Feodor von Luerzer, a noted Austrian artist with manners most gracious. The walls and even the ceiling of the little cabin were literally lined with beautiful canvases, some only partially completed, but all showing the touch of a

master.

"I always spend my summers here," he explained, "at the Lucerne of America," as I have named Lake Coeur d'Alene. I was born in Salzberg, and traveled all over Europe before I came to America, and I have found nothing more beautiful than this lake-nothing more inspiring for an artist-not even in Switzerland. The lake reminds me of Lucerne only it is larger and even more beautiful, and offers a greater variety of sports and pleasures than the Swiss lake." Often on moonlight. nights, Mr. Luerzer used to take a party of us out in his launch, and we could easily have imagined ourselves in Venice. The lake and hills clothed in moonlight presented a scene of irresistible charm, while the brilliantly lighted city of Coeur d'Alene viewed from our boat looked like a crescent diadem encircling the silvery waters of the lake. One of our excursions took us to Hayden Lake, only a few miles distant from Coeur d'Alene. This small glacial lake, with no visible outlet, is a marvel of Nature's handiwork. It is indescribably beautiful. We could only exclaim with Byron, in his apostrophe to

Leman :

"Clear, placid Leman! thy contrasted lake With the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing Which warns me with its stillness to forsake

Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring.
This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing
To waft me from distraction; once I
loved

Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft murmurings

Sound sweet as if a sister's voice reproved, That I with stern delights should e'er have been moved."

President Taft was entertained with a bear dinner at the tavern inn on this lake during his famous trip through the West. "It is one of the most charming spots in America," said President Taft.