2o8 A SPORTSMAN'S EDEN. 



fallen giants, and come to a gully with a frozen 

 stream below. Here we crawl along a pole, and 

 I thank my stars that Jocko requires all his 

 attention to keep his own equilibrium, and can't 

 see what a funk I am in. However, we are over, 

 and don't stop to blow. Jocko, I find, never 

 does stop. As we rise the hill the morning 

 breaks upon us, a miracle of beauty. It seems 

 as though a million fairy spears, gem-tipped and 

 silver-hafted, were levelled at us, and along their 

 levelled points comes the sun in a blaze of 

 splendour ; or it is a sea of molten silver set in 

 the dark-green pines, with here and there a 

 gaunt trunk, blackened by fire or blasted by 

 frost, rising stark and stern from it like the mast 

 of a wreck. 



Whatever it is, Jocko is wading through it 

 waist-deep, and I follow him, the scales of frost 

 rustling down crisp and dry from the big marsh- 

 tea-bushes and the birch-boughs. For a good 

 hour we fought our way through the frosted 

 brush, and climbed over the snow-covered logs, 

 or, Blondin-like, walked along them. In moc- 

 casins it is easy enough, but I should be sorry to 

 try it in boots. Here and there we got glimpses 

 of the marshes, low-lying tracts without trees, 

 covered entirely with the Indian marsh-tea, 

 looking a soft dove-colour in the distance. Close 



