

LITTLE CLEAR POND* 128 



and then started up the valley with the dog to put 

 him on the trail. I had been waiting, perhaps half an 

 hour, when I heard the quick, sharp, currish yelp of 

 Shack, some distance off, on the side of the mountain* 

 In a few minutes I heard the long bounds of a deer, 

 as he came crashing through the brush towards the 

 lake, with the dog some six or eight rods behind him, 

 barking quick and sharp, at every jump. The deer 

 leaped into the water, some eight rods from me, and 

 struck out for the opposite shore. A ball from my 

 rifle stopped him- I was soon along side of him with 

 the canoe, and passing my hunting knife across his 

 throat, the pure waters around him became crimson 

 with his blood. 



From Big Clear Pond we struck across a ridge 

 some two miles to Little Clear Pond, a sheet of water 

 covering perhaps three hundred acres. This little 

 lakelet, if I may be permitted to coin a word, is a per- 

 fect gem, laying there all alone, skirted by tall forest 

 trees, and overlooked by the hills, its waters trans- 

 parent and cold, undisturbed by a ripple, and reveal- 

 ing the white pebbles that glisten away down in its 

 quiet depths. We dined on its banks, beneath a 

 festoon of vines, that spread out among the branches 



