ON THE GANDER RIVER. 205 



August, 1906, while camped with my mother on 

 Woody Island by the Narrows, which form the high- 

 road to the interior, I saw, with regretful yet not 

 altogether selfish eyes, five parties of " sports " pass 

 away into my old hunting-ground. 



At the time I made my camp upon Woody Island 1 

 had not come to any decision as to where I should 

 hunt in September ; whether to pay a second visit to 

 the Terra Nova country with the intention of pene- 

 trating to further regions than I had hitherto reached, 

 or to try my luck on the Gander River, which was new 

 ground to me. Hardy, who was to be my companion, 

 had left the choice in my hands, and after I had seen 

 five boatloads of these boisterous voyagers hauling 

 away out of sight over the grey-green lake, the trouble 

 of making up my mind on that head no longer bothered 

 me : I unhesitatingly made choice of the Gander 

 River. 



Thus it came to pass that, on a pouring wet morning, 

 the 4th of September, Hardy and I turned out of the 

 train at Glenwood, the station near the Gander Lake. 

 All things considered, there can be few more dejected- 

 looking spots in the world than Glenwood. Its few 

 thin-chested wooden houses stand dolefully alongside 

 the metals ; a lumber mill and some sheds make an 

 untidy background ; the earth is covered with splinters 

 of wood and sodden with sawdust ; through the valley, 

 which is spanned by a trestle bridge, the Gander rolls 

 in quick water over a stony bed. The romance of its 

 name, Glenwood, has nothing to do with fact ; even the 

 beauty of the woods is absent, for fire and axe have 

 devastated them, and the place, standing exposed to 

 the wind, is both bleak and cold. 



