2 i8 A SPORTSMAN'S EDEN. 



fire-lit shadows into the stillness of the new 

 day. 



On the trail the snow is nearly a foot deep, 

 and I am glad to follow in my guide's footsteps 

 through the drifts. Here and there we step on 

 an unseen log or boulder, and sit down with little 

 ceremony and less comfort, the snow driving up 

 coat and shirt-sleeves, and freezing where it 

 touches the warm flesh. 



So far there is not even the track of a squirrel 

 on the path, and it is not until we reach the 

 ' crik ' that we come across the first wolfs trail. 



The ice may bear his gaunt carcass, but we 

 have to cut down a couple of small trees with 

 which to make some sort of a bridge before we 

 attempt to cross over. 



For six miles we held along the main lum- 

 berers' trail, passing some other deserted shanties 

 en route, round which a jungle of raspberry-canes 

 has grown up. Inside upon the walls are great 

 hazel hoops for stretching the skins of beavers, a 

 trap or two, and an axe-head. These belong to 

 Jocko, and have been here since last winter. 

 ' Not a bad bear,' is the first remark Jocko has 

 made since leaving our camp-fire, and, looking in 

 the direction in which he is pointing, I see the 

 bark torn from a great tree, some nine feet or 

 more from the ground. Here, probably, Bruin 



