LETTER XIX. 221 



part, for all I know, of that great chain which 

 stretches from the St. Lawrence to the Great 

 Bear Lake in the far North- West. Along this 

 chain of lakes, ' some of them as large as Euro- 

 pean kingdoms,' the moose still wanders in large 

 gangs, and will wander, in spite of the lumberer's 

 axe and the hunter's rifle, for many a year to 

 come. The only wonder is that man manages 

 ever to come across the great beast in his forest 

 fastnesses. 



It is about three o'clock when the track leads 

 into a very heavy grove of balsam, floored with 

 dwarf hemlock and the tea-bush. Here the snow 

 is tremendously deep, almost knee -deep in places, 

 and the heavy wreaths on the dark balsams half 

 smother us as they fall. 



Here, indeed, is an ideal home for the old- 

 fashioned King Christmas of the fairy tales of 

 our boyhood. Our moose seems to have been as 

 much enamoured of the scene as we are, for his 

 track wanders in and out, backwards and for- 

 wards, in the most aimless and wearying fashion. 

 In a little snowfield among the balsams he has 



O 



indulged in a pas seul, springing from side to 

 side in huge bounds, and generally having a good 

 romp round. But even here we can get no 

 glimpse of brown hide or branching horns, and 

 still the trail leads on, until we debouch on the 



