A Cruise on Lake Rossignol 



and is swept forward at an ever-accelerating speed, with 

 the water running so fast under him that he apparently 

 loses steerage way. We went fairly between the two 

 channel rocks on the crest of a comber. The next thing 

 I knew the big boulder in the centre of the channel 

 seemed to be right under our bows. I had the tiller 

 shoved hard over to the starboard side, and only when a 

 wreck appeared inevitable did the bow swing to port. 

 We missed that boulder by inches. A few seconds more 

 and we were chugging sturdily up the tortuous channel 

 bucking the current. We swung into a calm cove behind 

 a heavily wooded point. 



The wind was ripping through the tops of the trees, 

 which, combined with the surf and the rolling and 

 shifting boulders on the lake's edge, made a deafening 

 uproar. The rain came down in torrents. But, as Pat 

 said, it was a great day for still-hunting, since the moose 

 could not hear us; so we doffed our oilskins, buckled on 

 our cartridge-belts, and started through the woods. 

 The swamps were badly flooded, but our knee-high oiled 

 larrigans, or shoe-packs, kept out the water. Sweaters 

 and mackinaw coats and broad-brimmed felt hats will 

 shed water for hours without soaking through. Pat 

 took us by one of his bear-traps, in which we found a very 

 much alive and snarling wild-cat, caught by the two hind- 

 feet. It was too dark under the trees to get a picture. 

 A clout in the head finished it, and we hung it on a tree 

 against our return that night. Half an hour later we 

 struck fresh " brouse " where moose had been feeding, 

 and we sneaked along unmindful of rain or wind. Pat 

 was ahead, followed by the writer, then Ken. 



" There's a moose !" suddenly exclaimed Pat. 



Sure enough, through the birches hardly fifty yards 

 away, was a big cow pulling down a maple limb and eating 

 the tender shoots. If I had been as hungry then as I 



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