A Lost Man and a Wounded Moose 



I have lost my way. 



—Antony and Cleopatea. 



It is the unexpected that always happens in hunt- 

 ing. When you most desire and look for your game, 

 then is the time you don't see it ; and when and where 

 you don't look for it, then and there you are apt to 

 run against it. 



My guides had told me marvellous tales of the hunt- 

 ing opportunities that flourished around a certain pond 

 or small lake, a couple of days' journey from our camp- 

 ing ground. To find out whether these tales were 

 true or not, I thought it worth while to go there, 

 especially as one of the guides had spent the previous 

 winter in a lumber camp near by, and was familiar, 

 or ought to have been, with the country. There was 

 a very large bog, five miles long and about a mile 

 broad, which was a favorite haunt of the caribou, 

 moose and deer, and they found in it enough rich food 

 for sustenance without resorting to any other locality. 



Yery pretty and promising all this, but there is no 

 rose without a thorn, and this rose of ours had one in 

 the shape of a goose — a goose of a sportsman who was 

 camped on a stream some two miles away from the 



