2S8 CANADIAN NIGHTS 



Just beyond is a little clump of pines, and all 

 around a grey meadow, quite open for some fifty 

 yards or so, then dotted with occasional unhappy- 

 looking firs, sad and forlorn, with long tresses 

 of grey moss hanging from their stunted limbs. 

 The trees grow closer and closer together, and 

 become more vigorous in appearance till they 

 merge into the unbroken forest beyond. Sup- 

 posing that I formed one of the party, I should 

 immediately take measures to make myself com- 

 fortable for the night, for I am of a luxurious 

 habit. I should set one Indian, say John Williams, 

 to look for water, which he would find by scooping 

 a hole in the moss with his hands, into which cavity 

 a black and muddy liquid would presently flow, 

 not inviting to look at, but in an hour's time it 

 will have settled clear enough to drink — in the 

 dark. I and the other Indian, say Noel Glode, 

 would turn to and make camp. That is easily done 

 when you know how — so is making a watch. You 

 clear away a space beneath some tree, making it 

 nice and level, and set up a shelter on whichever 

 side you apprehend the wind will come from. 

 You stick some poles or young fir-trees into the 

 ground, prop them up with other trees, lash a pole 

 horizontally along them, with a bit of string if you 



