HUNTING ON THE UPPER GANDER 115 



The next day, Friday, September 17, was rather an inter- 

 esting one, because I killed a fine stag through a seemingly 

 trivial piece of observation ; and to show that in caribou 

 hunting a man's ears are often as important as his eyes, 

 I will s^ive the circumstances. 



It was an exquisite autumn morning, clear as crystal, 

 and not a breath of wind stirring; a few golden birch 

 leaves, early forerunners of coming decay, were floating 

 down the river, and up on the hillside you could hear the 

 jays whistling and talking to one another about the excel- 

 lent food supply they had discovered. The great white- 

 headed eagle passed overhead, coming from some of the 

 fish lakes of the interior, and a belated osprey (who must 

 have found fishing for his dinner in the shallows of the 

 Gander a laborious necessity) circled round the camp. 

 According to my usual custom, I started up stream soon 

 after daybreak, leaving the men to follow when the canoes 

 were packed. 



Not one of the least important things in this form of 

 still-hunting is to sit down frequently and, with senses alert, 

 to interpret the manifold signs of nature— in fact, to sit and 

 listen. After going for a mile, I found on the north bank 

 the regular crossing-place of a big stag. Evidently, too, it 

 had used the same spot to traverse the river morning and 

 evening for the past two months, for the indentations showed 

 a curious physical defect in one of the right fore hoofs, 

 which was unusually elongated and bent inwards. That old 

 fellow had been across the river about an hour before my 

 advent. Thqre was discoloured water in his spoor, and close 

 alongside fresh droppings. So I sat down and listened. 



The grey curtain of midges arose to float in a mazy dance 

 in the sun. The black flies, though losing their vicious- 



