Descending to the shore, however, we found that even here, so far from shipyards and the sea, a steamboat was awaiting us.  Imagine the labor of conveying such a vessel sixty-five miles, from the railroad to this lake, up an ascent of more than three thousand feet.  Of course, it was brought in several sections; but even then, in one or two mountain gorges, the cliffs had to be blasted away to make room for it to pass.  It is needless to add that this steamer has no rivals.  It was with the greatest interest that I sailed at such a height on this adventurous craft; and the next time that I stand upon the summit of Mount Washington, and see the fleecy clouds float in the empyrean, one-third of a mile above me, I shall remember that the steamer on Lake Yellowstone sails at precisely the same altitude as that enjoyed by those sun-tinted galleons of the sky.

[Illustration:  RUSTIC FALLS, YELLOWSTONE PARK.]

[Illustration:  THE SOLITARY STEAMBOAT.]

[Illustration:  ON LAKE YELLOWSTONE.]

To appreciate the beauty of Lake Yellowstone, one should behold it when its waves are radiant with the sunset glow.  It is, however, not only beautiful; it is mysterious.  Around it, in the distance, rise silver crested peaks whose melting snow descends to it in ice-cold streams.  Still nearer, we behold a girdle of gigantic forests, rarely, if ever, trodden by the foot of man.  Oh, the loneliness of this great lake!  For eight long months scarcely a human eye beholds it.  The wintry storms that sweep its surface find no boats on which to vent their fury.  Lake Yellowstone has never mirrored in itself even the frail canoes of painted savages.  The only keels that ever furrow it are those of its solitary steamer and some little fishing-boats engaged by tourists.  Even these lead a very brief existence.  Like summer insects, they float here a few weeks, and disappear, leaving the winds and waves to do their will.

[Illustration:  THE SLEEPING GIANT.]

In sailing on this lake, I observed a distant mountain whose summit bore a strange resemblance to an upturned human face, sculptured in bold relief against the sky.  It is appropriately called the Sleeping Giant; for it has slept on, undisturbed, while countless centuries have dropped into the gulf of Time, like leaves in the adjoining forest.  How many nights have cast their shadows like a veil upon that giant’s silhouette!  How many dawns have flooded it with light, and found those changeless features still confronting them!  We call it human in appearance, and yet that profile was the same before the first man ever trod this planet.  Grim, awful model of the coming race, did not its stern lips smile disdainfully at the first human pygmy fashioned in its likeness?

[Illustration:  ALONG THE SHORE.]