One Deer. 183 



As we neared camp the stars were 

 sending silvery gleams over the ripples in 

 our wake. A glimpse of the back-log 

 burning low showed us where to land, and 

 the smell of the smoke hanging heavily 

 over the water was a reminder of the 

 comforts in store. 



The boat grated on the pebbly bottom, 

 and jumping out, we rolled out our game 

 and dragged him the short distance to 

 camp. Lichen-covered sticks were soon 

 snapping and roaring on the camp-fire, 

 and the forest around was all aglow as the 

 sparks arose with the smoke and floated 

 off among the branches of the trees over- 

 head. The red embers settled in a ruddy 

 heap, and the last piece of venison from 

 the deer which Dick had killed a few days 

 previously, and half a dozen big trout were 

 pulled from the moss by the spring where 

 we had stored them ready for use. As 

 they broiled and browned before the birch 

 logs the juice trickled out and fell sizzling 

 among the coals, sending fragrant aromas 

 in every direction. Our birch-bark plates 

 were filled as only the rich can afford 



