MOOSE DEER. 103 



faithfully promised to visit St. Francis in autumn, to 

 join one of my new acquaintances in a moose hunt. 



The beautiful tints of an American autumn were in 

 their greatest brilliancy when I reached the termination 

 of a long and tedious journey to accept the proffered 

 hospitalities. My reception was not so enthusiastic as 

 I expected ; in fact, my ardour was a little damped by 

 the marked coolness of my host. Yet, after coming such 

 a distance, I was determined to do some hunting, and a 

 well- stocked purse enabled me to carry out my wishes. 

 Starting at early morning, on a beautiful clear day, 

 we descended a stream, a tributary of the Penobscot 

 River, for eight or ten hours. The easy motion of the 

 birch bark, the grand scenery and the brilliant coloured 

 foliage, recalled many a vision I had formed of what 

 fairyland must resemble. About four o'clock we dis- 

 embarked, our birch bark was shouldered, and a 

 portage of a mile or two traversed, when the margin 

 of a clear, calm lake was reached, surrounded with 

 beautiful green hills. Soon again we were on the 

 bosom of the waters, arriving at a second halting-place 

 as the sun in glorious splendour dipped the western 

 horizon. Hiding the frail canoe in some brush, my 

 attendant leading, we started up an acclivity, when, 

 after an hour's rough and difficult walking, the Indian 

 stopped and sounded a note on his birch-bark horn* 



