IN A FISHING COUNTRY 



moose, darkness fell in a whirl of snow 

 when he was deep in the woods, and his 

 snow-shoe tracks were covered so rapidly 

 that he could not return upon them. With- 

 out an ax, a fire of green branches would 

 not serve to fight the cold. Lightly clad, 

 fatigued and wet with the pursuit, he was 

 in pretty desperate case. I do not remember 

 whether he followed a traditional practice 

 or merely copied the hare and the grouse, 

 but this is how he managed to keep the 

 life in his body. Taking off his coat and 

 wrapping it tightly about head and shoul- 

 ders he dived into a heavy drift, kicking 

 and wriggling down and along till he 

 was deeply buried. The hours till morning 

 were miserable enough, and seemed end- 

 less, but the snow kept him from freezing 

 to death and even from chilling beyond the 

 danger-point. 



A veillee in the woods; song and story 

 had circled the fire. N — listened, smoked, 

 applauded, but would not add his 'turn'. 

 A round now began of the usual tricks and 

 feats of strength. Though with perfect 

 good-humour, N — steadily refused to 

 take part. Urging only brought the quiet 

 remark: — Je parte mon canot. This in- 

 deed he did, and no one else could stand up 

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