62 HUNTING CAMPS. 



crew departed as the wind had shifted to a quarter which 

 promised a clear run down the estuary, and Jack and I 

 were left with the trappers. 



That night, as we smoked our pipes in the glow of the 

 camp fire, we gained at last some first-hand information 

 about the caribou. 



For the previous seven or eight years one of the main 

 herds (so far as I know, it is generally believed there are 

 three in the peninsula of Labrador) had put in an 

 appearance in the vicinity of Sam Broomfield's house 

 between the 5th and 19th of November. Only the year 

 before the old trapper and his son had shot thirty 

 animals, and Mrs. Broomfield had watched a part of the 

 migration from her back window. These facts, though 

 exceedingly interesting, came in the nature of a blow to 

 my hopes, for it was perfectly obvious that, as I had to 

 join the steamer at Fanny's Harbour on the 16th of 

 October, the caribou would still be some hundreds of 

 miles away when I must perforce bid farewell to Jack 

 Lane's Bay. 



Though bereft of any chance of seeing " la foule" as 

 the French Canadians of Hudson's Bay call the great 

 migration of the caribou, Sam considered it quite pos- 

 sible that we might, to use his own words, "come up with 

 some stag that's got left behind," and with a view to 

 doing this we traversed the woods and barrens round 

 the end of the inlet for the next few days. Our efforts 

 proved entirely fruitless, for we saw neither track nor sign 

 of any animal whatever save foxes. Once Sam, looking 

 over the vast landscape of fir and spruce, interspersed 

 with wide and dismal marshes, remarked, " The Labra- 

 dor do make a man feel terrible lonesome." I do not 

 think any words could have bettered this description. 



