THE WING-FOOTED 



Somewhere in all this lies the magic, 

 not in the slaying of beasts and fishes, 

 the magic that conjures up at sight of 

 this solitary house the vision of lakes 

 innumerable, the tiny beginnings of 

 rivers, far-stretching barrens lonely as 

 the sea, mountain-tops from which all 

 earth and sky are possessed as your 

 own. Plain and broad before you lies 

 the trail that will carry you onward, 

 that will fork, and fork again, flicker 

 out and die at the Riviere du Chemin de 

 Canot, le Petit Lac Derriere la Cabane 

 de Medee, Lac des Neiges and Lac du 

 Sault, in the desolations of the Enfer 

 and the swamps of the Grande Savane, 

 or where lakes Trois Loups Cerviers, 

 Sans Oreilles and Couchee des Femines 

 lie very silent in their encircling hills. 



For this indeed is one of the chief 

 gateways into that great tract which the 

 province of Quebec, with high wisdom 

 and foresight, set apart near twenty 

 years ago "as a forest reservation, fish 



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