LETTER XVIII. 207 



from the pure white snow. Then the sky was 

 of deep, deep blue steel, set with points of cold 

 fire. Now the sky has paled, and hangs red and 

 pale blue over a forest of silver filigree, pine 

 and birch and stream all bound in fetters of 

 silver. 



Early rising does not appear to be essential in 

 moose-hunting, for it is 7.30 before Jocko has 

 finished packing up his little blue handkerchief 

 full of necessaries matches, a knife, some bread, 

 a piece of the fattest pork he can find, etc., all 

 neatly stowed away in a bundle not too big to go 

 inside a large stove-pipe hat. On our feet are 

 long sealskin moccasins, reputed waterproof, and 

 reaching to the knee. Over these are the re- 

 doubtable red canvas overalls, warranted to wear 

 a year, and excellent for the woods. Our hands 

 are covered first with woollen gloves, and then 

 with fingerless gloves of deerskin, for it appears 

 that in the work before us ordinary gloves are 

 soon worn out. I should advise any who imitate 

 me in this sport to have their gloves soled. The 

 silence of the forest seems to have settled on 

 Jocko early. As soon as he has completed his 

 preparations, he begins to speak in whispers. 

 When he leaves the hut he becomes dumb. For 

 a few hundred yards we swing along down the 

 path, then we turn into a kind of timber-yard of 



