STORY OF A PORCUPINE HUNT 55 



food. It is not the food itself, but the sur- 

 roundings, the environment, which give it such 

 a zest. 



We rolled ourselves in our blankets on our springy 

 beds of spruce boughs and watched the crackling 

 fire, fascinated as one always is by the ruddy smoke 

 as it swept upward toward the twinkling stars, 

 faintly illuminating the dark branches of the sur- 

 rounding trees. As we watched we listened 

 listened for the sound of a wandering porcupine 

 which, attracted by the smell of bacon, might be 

 tempted to approach our camp. While watching 

 we often dozed, for we were tired with the healthy 

 tiredness of outdoor life. It was, perhaps, ten o'clock, 

 the fire had died down to a few smouldering logs 

 which sent up fitful flames of tiny sparks and blue 

 wreaths of smoky plumes, when we were awakened 

 by the faint, shrill call of porcupines, several of which 

 were evidently near by. We listened for some time 

 until we thought we knew where the nearest one 

 was. Then, slipping on our boots and taking 

 torches of birch-bark, we quietly made our way 

 towards the sound. On we went, further and 

 further, making our way with great difficulty over 

 the fallen trees, among the upturned roots and the 

 tangle of underbrush. Suddenly the flaring torch 

 showed us a porky not twenty-five feet away. The 

 light striking the polished ends of the quills gave 

 him a most peculiar appearance. For a moment he 

 watched us, surprised at the strange sight, then, 

 deciding that we would look better from a greater 

 distance, he started away with all of us after him. 

 Never have I taken part in a stranger chase. We 



