LOST IN A CEDAR SWAMP 139 



Fourteen years ago I had a French Canadian for a 

 guide in a district where he had been trapping and lum- 

 bering for years. Early one morning I got a shot, head 

 on, at a fine bull moose. The bullet entered his breast 

 a little to the left of the centre, and pierced the lungs. 

 He disappeared like magic and made for the ridges. 



It was easy following him by the profuse trail of blood 

 which he left, and my judgment was that we ought to 

 sit down and give him an hour's rest, so that when the 

 trail was taken up again he would be so stiff that it 

 would be no trouble finally to get him. 



Tom, however, was sure that we'd find him down and 

 out at any minute, and insisted upon following him at 

 once. The end, however, was not what we had ex- 

 pected, for the trail led to a wet, mossy bog, and, as the 

 tracks were closed up by the spongy moss as soon as 

 they were made, we could not follow them at all. Tom 

 figured out that we had driven him eighteen miles, but 

 whether he was right or not I have no means of 

 telling. 



When we had reluctantly to abandon the pursuit, 

 Tom led off quite bravely for the camp, or where he 

 supposed it was. It was now becoming late. In the 

 eagerness of the chase we had partaken of no food since 

 the early morning, and as the shot had been fired at 

 eight o'clock and we had since been continuously on the 

 move, we were naturally " tuckered out." Of clothing 

 we had but little, as we had left all superfluous gar- 



