LETTER V. 65 



ing, perhaps unconsciously, that you may die the 

 death of the Canadian summer, while the blood 

 is still hot in your veins, with no long sick-bed 

 prelude, you have unconsciously got far ahead of 

 your train, though your pace has been the 

 natural walk of your pony. The bells are out 

 of earshot, and you rein up and wait on a little 

 bare patch by the river's bank. A quarter of an 

 hour passes by and you are tired of noting the 

 old camping-ground on which a generation of 

 packers has made its dampers, drawn the water 

 for its tea, and contentedly eaten its beans and 

 bacon ; tired of scrutinizing the bear-tracks in the 

 river-bed, and frustrating your pony's attempts to 

 roll, when suddenly a storm of oaths and a furious 

 clattering of hoofs bursts on your astonished ear, 

 and the lean figure of old S., in his shirt-sleeves, 

 not smoking, dashes through the pines in pursuit 

 of that etc., etc.'d Buckskin, who appears to be 

 proceeding entirely on his forefeet like a perform- 

 ing dog. Between us, S. and myself stop the 

 buckskin. S. has him by the head. I clear 

 out. How the old man holds on I can't con- 

 ceive. Long habit has something to do with it. 

 No one but a packer could live with that cayouse 

 five minutes. I can find no corner safe from his 

 heels. The brute appears in danger of parting 

 at his girths, so madly .does he lash out At 



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