WITH THE VOYAGEURS 13 



There is something sad about these stately trees, 

 densely packed, all a-row, unflinching, hopelessly 

 awaiting the onset of the inexorable, invincible river. 

 One group, somewhat isolated and formal, was a 

 forest life parallel to Lady Butler's famous "Roll Call 

 of the Grenadiers." 



At night we reached the Indian village of Pelican 

 Portage, and landed by climbing over huge blocks of 

 ice that were piled along the shore. The adult male 

 inhabitants came down to our camp, so that the vil- 

 lage was deserted, except for the children and a few 

 women. 



As I walked down the crooked trail along which 

 straggle the cabins, I saw something white in a tree at 

 the far end. Supposing it to be a White-rabbit in a 

 snare, I went near and found, to my surprise, first that 

 it was a dead house-cat, a rare species here; second, 

 under it, eyeing it and me alternately, was a hungry- 

 looking Lynx. I had a camera, for it was near sun- 

 down, and in the woods, so I went back to the boat 

 and returned with a gun. There was the Lynx still 

 prowling, but now farther from the village. I do not 

 believe he would have harmed the children, but a 

 Lynx is game. I fired, and he fell without a quiver 

 or a sound. This was the first time I had used a gun 

 in many years, and was the only time on the trip. I 

 felt rather guilty, but the carcass was a godsend to two 

 old Indians who were sickening on a long diet of salt 

 pork, and that Lynx furnished them tender meat for 

 three days afterward; while its skin and skull went to 

 the American Museum. 



