102 HUNTING CAMPS. 



before my reader's eye. It was one instinct with the 

 spirit of Nature as she reigns among the marshes and 

 barrens of Newfoundland. The wind was blowing out 

 of a stormy sunset, swaying the dwarfed trees, sweeping 

 over the morasses, now red and sulphur yellow with 

 their autumn tints, and over isolated ridges of barren 

 where dark crags stood up among the reindeer moss. 

 All around the circle of sight companies of deer were 

 moving, and as we doubled a curve of wood one fine 

 young stag with red horns caught wind of us, bounded 

 into the air with fear, and fled snorting ; then for a 

 moment he halted on the darkening sky-line, horns, head, 

 and great white mane outlined. We tramped on, and 

 soon the dusk fell, and presently through it we made 

 out the flame of the birch tree logs of our camp fire, 

 and arrived there to find that Frank and Arnold had 

 returned. 



Owing to the necessity of fixing and cleaning the 

 head-skin of the large stag and some other pressing 

 bits of work, we could only make time for half a day's 

 hunting on the following afternoon. We set out about 

 one o'clock in a westerly direction, aiming for a locality 

 known as Ayres' Marsh. I had now set my standard 

 very high, having made up my mind not to fire at any 

 stag unless he carried a really remarkable head. The 

 sun was shining through snow clouds over the wide 

 marsh, making some of its pools glow to gold and 

 crimson. Many companies of deer were in sight, some 

 blurred and in shadow, others gleaming snow-white in 

 the brilliant breaks of light. 



Our sport on that occasion does not demand any 

 detailed description, consisting as it did of several stalks 

 and a great deal of observation of distant stags through 



