A HAPPY VALLEY.
An interesting story is related by Mr. Farnham in his travels in the Rocky Mountains, of a trapper of martens and beavers who travelled alone far up the river Missouri until he discovered a valley so picturesque and beautiful, and apparently so admirably adapted to the wild life in which he delighted, that he determined to remain here for the remainder of his days. "The lower mountains," says Mr. Farnham, "were covered with tall pines, and above and around, except in the east, where the morning sun sent his rays, the bright glittering ridges rose high against the sky decked in the garniture of perpetual frosts. Along the valley lay a clear pure lake, in the centre of which played a number of fountains which threw their waters many feet above its surface, and sending their waves rippling away to the pebbly shores, made the mountains and groves that were reflected from its bosom, seem to leap and clap their hands for joy at the sacred quiet that reigned amongst them."
Having gazed for a long time upon this beautiful spot the trapper resolved to explore it carefully, and determine from what parts strangers could enter a valley so completely shut in as to appear to have been hitherto altogether lost sight of by human beings. It was important to him to determine if it was tenanted by any other person besides himself, and if there were places of escape should it be entered by hostile persons by the path by which he had discovered it. He found no other except one for the waters of the lake, through a deep chasm in the mountains, and this was such, that no one Could descend it alive to the lower valleys; for, as he waded and swam by turns down its waters, he soon found himself drawn by an increasing current, which sufficiently indicated to him the cause of the deep roar that resounded from the caverns below. He accordingly made the shore, climbed along among the projecting crags, till he overlooked an abyss of fallen rocks, into which the stream poured and foamed, and was lost in the mist. He returned to his camp, satisfied he had found a hitherto undiscovered valley stored with beaver and trout and grass for his horses, where he could trap fish, and dream awhile in safety. Every morning for three delightful weeks he drew the beaver from the deep pools, where they had plunged when the trap had seized them, and stringing them two and two together over his pack-horse, bore them to his camp, and with his long side-knife stripped off the skins for fur, pinned them to the ground to dry, and in his camp-kettle cooked the much-prized tails for mid-day repast. "Was it not a fine hunt that?" asked he, "beaver as thick as mosquitoes; trout as plenty as water; but the terribly Blackfeet Indians."
The sun had thrown a few rays upon the rim of the eastern firmament, when the Blackfeet war-whoop rang around his tent, a direful "whoopah," ending with a yell, piercing sharp and shrill through the clenched teeth. He had but one means of escape—the lake—into which he plunged beneath a shower of poisoned arrows—plunged deeply, and swam under while he could endure the absence of air. He rose, he was in the midst of his foes, swimming and shouting round him; down again, and up to breathe, and on he swam with long and powerful sweeps. The pursuit was long; but at last he entered the chasm which he had explored, plunged along the cascade as near as he dared, clung to a shrub that grew from the crevice in the rock, and lay under water for the approach of his pursuers. On they came; they passed, they shrieked, and plunged into the abyss of mist and were lost. But the trapper, aware of the propensity to vengeance in the tribe, packed up his guns, and taking a last look at the happy valley, departed with his pack-horses on his western journey.