LETTER XIX. 217 



Jocko enters, with a huge log upon his 

 shoulder, and there is a smile in his big brown 

 eyes. 



' We've got the snow now,' he says, ' and plenty 

 of him.' The change is explained. Outside every- 

 thing is soft and white. There is a soft, heavy 

 look in the gray of the morning sky ; the ground 

 is soft with six inches of piled snowflakes ; heavy 

 and soft they hang upon the balsams ; carpet the 

 ground, and cling in patches even to the grim 

 trunks, still standing gaunt and black amongst 

 the brute 



The old records are blotted out, and a clean 

 page of forest history lies open before us. If 

 ever a day promised well for the moose-hunter, it 

 is to-day, and our spirits rise at the thought. 



Fearlessly we tackle the tin bucket, in spite of 

 its thin coating of ice, and splash about vigor- 

 ously on the wood-pile in the corner, which serves 

 for our dressing-room. 



The coffee-pot simmers merrily, the bacon 

 hisses an unnecessary invitation to breakfast, and 

 even the damp moccasins, hanging from the 

 clothes-line by the fire, are put on almost with- 

 out a shudder. Madame alone remains proof 

 against the voice of hope, curled up and content 

 now that she has all the buffalo robe to herself. 



At seven Jocko and myself steal out from the 



