MATING 71 



me, others going near the fighting stags, who, of course, 

 took the alarm at once, forgot their grievances and each 

 other, and trotted off with the herd. All of this took but 

 a few seconds, so quickly did they rush past and so close 

 that I forgot, in the excitement, to reload the camera. Too 

 late did I get my wits together and put in a plate, then I 

 rushed out a few yards clear of the trees and made an 

 attempt to secure a photograph of the white-flanked herd, 

 now thoroughly frightened, as they splashed across the wet 

 barren, filling the air with sparkling drops of water and 

 pieces of moss and leaving a trail as though a regiment of 

 cavalry had passed. There must have been fully one 

 hundred and fifty altogether, as nearly as I could estimate ; 

 evidently the main herd, unknown to me, had been 

 joined by many others during the hours I had been so 

 intently watching those nearest to me. 



Now it was all over. Once more everything was as calm 

 and quiet as we expect the wild land to be. The pent-up 

 excitement of the past minutes (or was it hours ?) was gone 

 and there remained no visible evidence of all that occurred, 

 nothing but the latent image on the photographic plate and 

 the sense of great joy and satisfaction in having obtained at 

 least some sort of picture of a real Caribou fight with real, 

 well-grown stags. Now, indeed, I might snap my fingers 

 and laugh at those well-meaning people who had tried so 

 hard to discourage me. That I should ever be fortunate 

 enough to again witness such a sight was doubtful, so I 

 was particularly careful of the precious plate on my way 

 back to camp. It was late in the afternoon, and I had far 

 to go, but that long walk seemed short, the difficulties of 

 getting over the soft bogs were unnoticed, and as I paddled 

 down stream to my solitary camp I came to the conclusion 

 that camera-hunting was a fine game, notwithstanding 



