It was an unexplored region, and they could never tell what scene the next mile would open before them.

One morning as they were turning the majestic bend of a ravine, they came upon a beautiful little meadow, where the mountains retired for nearly a quarter of a mile from the stream, and where the waters of the river flowed gently in a smooth, untroubled current.

They were ascending the river which flowed down from the south.

A beautiful vista was opened before them of green valleys and gentle treeless eminences, while far away in the distance rose towering mountains.
Upon this lovely meadow there was a large village of Flathead Indians.
Their conical lodges, constructed of skins, were scattered thickly around, while the smoke of their fires curled gently through an opening in the top of each lodge.

Children were playing upon the greensward, shooting their arrows, throwing their javelins, and engaged in sundry other barbaric sports.