222 IN THE LUMBER WOODS 



expectant silence of the forest. Quarrelling over scraps of food 

 they often become, quite forgetful of the presence of man, and 

 may be captured alive by the hand. On rare fine days a not unfre- 

 quent visitor to the camp clearing is the ruffed grouse, forming a 

 welcome addition to the pot. As spring approaches, active little 

 chipmunks and squirrels visit the camp to pick up stray morsels 

 of food or ascend the neighbouring pine trees to chatter and cut 

 off the cones, letting them fall beneath after stripping them of 

 their seeds. 



Sometimes the camp keeps a hunter, usually an Indian, who brings 

 back on occasion the dark red flesh of some great moose, surprised 

 on its early morning beat around the winter ' moose-yard ', or 

 the dry flavourless meat of a caribou, shot after many hours of 

 stealthy creeping on some moss-carpeted barren. It has not 

 infrequently happened that the sound of the axe has disturbed 

 some bear hibernating beneath a pile of logs and brushwood, and 

 the dazed half-asleep animal suddenly driven out into the winter 

 daylight has fallen an easy prey to the keen weapons of the axe- 

 men. Then the lesser fur-bearing animals, lucivee, sable, marten, 

 otter and beaver, are trapped on Sundays and other holidays, and 

 add a trifle to lumbermen's modest winter earnings. 



The shelter for the horses and the long-horned mild-eyed oxen, 

 which patiently tug at the logs all winter, is hardly distinguished 

 from the men's camp, except that it is overhung by no blue wreaths 

 of smoke. Near it there is always a blacksmith's forge, where all 

 the ironwork on the sleds used for hauling is repaired, and a refuse 

 heap where bleached skeletons of bob-sleds, litters of broken 

 flour barrels, broken axe handles and other used-up tools surmount 

 a dreary pile of debris. 



At the advent of spring vast piles of logs have been accumu- 

 lated, all carefully scored with trade-marks at their butts, awaiting 

 the release of the river from its fetters of ice. On some fine day, 

 usually during the early part of April, after many ominous crackings, 

 the reign of the ice king is brought to an abrupt close. Spring 

 suddenly usurps the throne of winter. 



As if by some convulsion of nature the river becomes unsealed, 

 and the ice breaks up into countless fragments. Jostling and 

 grinding against each other the ice-pans move suddenly down 

 stream like a routed army in full retreat. Following in their rear 

 are the victorious revolutionary forces, glimmering frothing waves 

 of clear water leaping and dancing down as if rejoicing in their 

 liberty once more attained. 



Very soon the winter's work of the logging camp comes scrambling 

 along on the flood of waters where the ice so lately held sway. 



