35 6 Sporting Sketches 



paler, and a puff of air, keen as if from the very 

 Pole, met me. "Looks like snow too cold to 

 snow," I muttered; then added louder: 



" We'll tryit." 



The black eyes twinkled an instant with an in- 

 describable flash, then he turned into the cabin. As 

 I followed I heard him give utterance to a peculiar 

 low grunt, which might have meant anything or 

 nothing. I would have given something to have 

 been able to translate it, for beyond question my 

 decision had raised or lowered his estimation of 

 my woodcraft and general qualifications. I ac- 

 quired wisdom later. 



Within five minutes we were ready. Jo had 

 carefully watched the flask, sandwich, shells, and 

 tobacco go into my pockets, and again had grunted 

 softly when I examined my matchbox. Then, with- 

 out a word, he led the way on the creaking, netted 

 shoes which alone rendered walking a possibility. 

 He was a mighty pace-maker. Snow-shoeing is the 

 hardest of hard work, and Jo certainly showed me 

 all there was in it. Before half a mile had been 

 covered he had me fumbling with mittenless hand 

 at the unruly button at my throat, and by the time 

 a mile lay behind my forehead was damp in spite of 

 an air that nipped like a mink-trap. At length we 

 reached the edge of a tongue of fir- woods, where Jo 

 paused. Before spread a mile-broad open, where 

 some old fire had bitten to the bone. In summer 

 this was an artistic expanse of lichened rocks, with 

 low, lean scrub between ; now it spread like a frozen 

 sea, with stiffened billows half buried in purest snow. 

 For minutes he stood, while his eyes scanned every 



