CARIBOO HUNTING. 157 



or constructing a hand-sled perhaps, whilst you lazily fall 

 back amongst the blankets, and snooze away far into the 

 bright morning, till the noon-day sun strikes down on your 

 face through the aperture in the top of the camp. Then 

 you are told by the dusky cook and steward of the camp 

 that the '^ pork's giving out," or the " sweetening is 

 getting short," and all things remind you that " it's hard 

 times," and no fresh meat, and all for want of a nice little 

 fall of snow. However, there lies a great ball of a thing, 

 all covered with quills, like a hedgehog, in the cook's 

 corner, and the cook recommends that a " bilin " of soup 

 should be instituted ; so Master Porcupine is scraped, 

 and skinned, and chopped, and, with an odd bone or two 

 which turns up from the larder, a little rice, and lots of 

 sliced onions, he is converted into a broth, and another 

 day in the woods is cleared by the pork thereby saved. 

 At last, when the bitter reflection of having to return 

 from the woods empty-handed presents itself to you some 

 morning on awakening, the joyous flakes are seen gently 

 falling through the top of the camp, and hissing as they 

 meet the embers of the fire. " Now's your time," says 

 the party all round, and the camp is all bustle and 

 animation — such tying on of moccasins, and buckling on 

 of ammunition-belts, and knives, and axes ; not forgetting 

 to provide for the mid-day refreshment, by filling of 

 flasks, and stowing away of biscuits and lumps of cheese. 

 Presently the wind rises, and the storm thickens ; the 

 new covering of snow seems to draw out the frost from 

 the old crusted surface, and the moccasin now steps 

 noiselessly in the tracks of the game. That day, or on 

 the next, there is no need of porcupine soup, for huge 

 steaks hang from the camp-poles, and a rich and savoury 



