In the Northwest Territories over the divide, where all vegetation dwindles down to nothing as one approaches the barren lands, I know a small lake nestling in the hollow of three hills.

The traveller reaches it on one side by a trail. On the other, a swift creek is the only outlet. Protected from the wind, the trees which surround it have grown to giant size. They stand closely packed right to the edge of the water.

The little lake with its circle of vegetation does not cover more than an acre. From the top of the hills, one peers down on it as on a small oasis lost in the desert.

Amidst the savage, grey boulders of the surrounding country, one looks lovingly on the splash of color which strikes the eye. The dark green of the murmuring jack-pines; the sapphire blue of the still, icy waters.

A little later, when the canoe has been launched on the lake and has drifted towards the center, the traveller gazes over the side in amazement. The water is as pure as crystal and deep as a well. Far down at the bottom of the lake, countless springs are scattered everywhere among the rocks. Each spring sends a column of white, foaming water up towards the surface and each column of white foam spreads and dissolves itself into millions of bubbles which dance about—mounting, ever mounting—until they burst and become part of the sapphire blue of the lake itself.

Few white men have been there—but those few cannot forget the beauty of the lonely spot. The Indians call it “The well with the White Smoke”. In the company, we call it simply “The little blue lake”.