NORTHERN GAME TRAILS 335 



heads carry small pointed horns, more deadly by 

 far than the stags' cumbersome antlers. 



Over the bleak partly snow-covered tract I 

 stood, watching the slowly dying day, and all the 

 world seemed to stand by, silent, hushed, awed, 

 s if waiting for the end. An old cock ptarmigan 

 buzzed by, straightened and stopped his wings, 

 then slid on a long slant and dropped out of sight 

 in the willows. A hare, with his autumnal coat 

 nearly matching the snow, got up literally out of 

 the ground, limped into space and passed. Then, 

 as if the picture were not sufficiently arresting, on 

 the very top of a snow-covered crest stood a mag- 

 nificent old bull caribou in silhouette, all bur- 

 nished in silver, against a silently raging furnace. 

 Came then dusk to the pomp of the dying day, 

 and the sable skirts of night descended softly as 

 a drifting feather. 



Outside the quivering ring of campfire light 

 the darkness was profound, which wavered, ad- 

 vanced and receded. The blackness was so hope- 

 lessly impenetrable I wondered if a storm was 

 rolling up. Soon I saw little pale stars timidly 

 glimmering through the vast black vault above. 

 Then a meek, wan moon came stealing shyly up 

 over the bleak, ghost-like spurs and shed a milky, 

 uncanny light through a large, round misty halo. 



