A CARIBOU HUNT 95 



will occasionally drop his treadmill work and try it. 



Doubtless there are some who will think me insane 

 to call the seclusion of a bog restful, or to recommend 

 such an occupation as caribou hunting as a sovereign 

 remedy for the ills of the body and soul. Or they 

 may consider it the essence of absurdity to spend a 

 whole week in tramping over bogs in search of that 

 animal, and then, like a hermit, solitary and alone, to 

 sit down on a log, and meditate. 



Alone, my friend ? You make a mistake. I was 

 not alone. It must be a man of little soul and less 

 sentiment who thinks himself alone when he has 

 Nature at his elbow. And she was at mine, opening, 

 as it were, a drama before me, and for my express edi- 

 fication. I looked upon it and wondered at the sight ; 

 wondered at the wealth of her life — her plant life, and 

 her strange animal life, whose strangeness is so no- 

 tably marked in her caribou. Alone my friend ? No. 

 It is true I was the only mortal among her audience — 

 the only human " looker on in Vienna " ; and I will say 

 that no stage representation ever enchained my at- 

 tention so tightly or afforded me more food for 

 thought and study. Alone ? Oh, no I These " goodly 

 creatures " of the bog were to me more genial com- 

 pany than would have been that of men and women, 

 with nerves and temper and energy and strength jaded 

 and worn by the fantastic fads and customs of civilized 

 life. No, reader ; I was not alone. 



