164 CANADIAN WILDS. 



I was only about eighteen at the time, and 

 had gone out in a birch-bark canoe to shoot 

 ducks on the banks. My companion, an Indian 

 boy, even younger than myself in years, but sev- 

 eral times older in experience, was to steer the 

 canoe. The last words his father said to us 

 before leaving, were, "Don't go too far out, or 

 the 'Ma-thcie-ne-mak' will cut your canoe and 

 eat you." 



The sea that morning was as calm as a pond, 

 and perfectly glassy from the strong May sun 

 striking straight down on it. We had been out 

 for a couple of hours, and had had pretty fair 

 luck with sea-ducks and loons, and were just 

 about starting for the shore before the tide left 

 us dry on the banks. If such a thing had hap- 

 pened, it would have entailed on us the labor 

 of carrying our canoe a mile or so to the beach, 

 over soft yielding sand. 



"We better go," the boy was saying when his 

 words were cut short in his mouth. With the 

 remains of that breath he screeched "Ma-tchie- 

 ne-mak!" and started to paddle like one pos- 

 sessed. I admit that his fright was infectious, 

 and coupled with the dread name of shark, it 

 so quickened my stroke, that Hanlon's sixty-a- 

 minute were very slow compared to the way I 

 worked my paddle. I have read, and heard 

 from old whalesmen, that as long as one kept the 



