We rather stole away from Round Prairie that morning. A settler had
taken advantage of a clearing some miles away to sow a little grain.
When our seven truants were found that brilliant morning, they had eaten
up practically the grain-field and were lying gorged in the center of
it.
[Illustration: _Bear-grass_]
So "we folded our tents like the Arabs, and as silently stole away."
(This has to be used in every camping-story, and this seems to be a good
place for it.)
We had come out on to the foothills again on our way to Kintla Lake.
Again we were near the Flathead, and beyond it lay the blue and purple
of the Kootenai Hills. The Kootenais on the left, the Rockies on the
right, we were traveling north in a great flat basin.
The meadow-lands were full of flowers. There was rather less Indian
paint-brush than on the east side of the park. We were too low for much
bear-grass. But there were masses everywhere of June roses, true
forget-me-nots, and larkspur. And everywhere in the burnt areas was the
fireweed, that phoenix plant that springs up from the ashes of dead
trees.
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