MIGRATIONS 85 



migration. Sleep came gradually, and some hours later I 

 awoke to hear the snow gently falling on the tight roof of 

 the tent. The wind had died away, the welcome sound 

 of the snow filled me with hope, and once more I slept to 

 dream of the morrow. When I opened my eyes again, the 

 snow was no longer falling ; everything was bathed in 

 moonlight, so cold and so quiet and so wonderfully beauti- 

 ful. It was scarcely five o'clock, nearly two hours before 

 the dawn, and for an hour I waited impatiently, only too 

 anxious to be out on my favourite leads watching for Caribou. 

 Then no longer able to wait, I got up while the woods were 

 still bathed in the mysterious moonlight. A fire was soon 

 started, and in the still air the smoke and sparks rose with- 

 out curve or flicker, a column of red and blue, like a ghost 

 against the background of frosted trees. 



The snowfall had been light, and had been followed by a 

 keen frost which coated each twig and leaf. How can anyone 

 describe such a morning ! No words, however well-chosen, 

 can give even the slightest suggestion of the beauty of it all. 

 The curious stillness in itself was indescribable. Nothing 

 disturbed it but the cheerful crackling of the fire, and the 

 scarcely perceptible purr of the floating ice, as it brushed 

 against the overhanging branches on the river bank. Amid 

 such surroundings my simple breakfast was eaten entirely 

 alone, as my friend and companion, the Canada Jay, was 

 not yet awake. I missed the confiding bird, for he usually 

 shared my porridge with me each morning. Sitting on the 

 log by my side, he would look up into my face with his 

 large dark eyes, and with a soft murmuring note beg for 

 his share. I never got tired of watching him and his cease- 

 less energy. He would eat very little, but spoonful after 

 spoonful would be carried away and hidden most carefully 

 in the trees, behind the curling bark of the large birches, in 



