A FALL HUNTING TRIP. 103 



the telescope. We did not see anything " worth giving 

 a gun to," as the Newfoundland expression has it. 



Those were splendid days, their pleasures rendered 

 the more vivid by memories of hunting in less favoured 

 countries. Early in the morning, while the wood in 

 which our camp lay was still an etching in black-and- 

 white, the men were stirring, and soon the warm and 

 cheerful camp fire would be crackling at the mouth of 

 the tent. Followed the sound of Frank's footsteps as 

 he crunched down to the lake edge through the frost 

 and light snow. Then the kettle was boiled and a cup 

 of tea made ; after which I rose to complete the rough 

 toilet of the woods before breakfast was announced to 

 be ready. 



On one occasion, however, this routine was altered. 

 I had just been awakened by hearing the men moving 

 about the fire, and Frank was in the act of pouring out 

 my morning tea, when there was a sound of running 

 footsteps snapping through the frost, and Jack burst 

 through the trees. 



"There is a big stag, Mr. Prichard, crossing the 

 'mesh'!" 



We were at this time encamped in a drogue of 

 considerable size that reached down to the shores of 

 the inevitable " pond." All about it lay a wide net- 

 work of marshes much grown over with that wonderful 

 soft reindeer moss and patched with coarse, yellowish 

 grass. 



" Stag's nearly past," added Jack, panting. 



No time remained for dressing, so, pulling on a pair 

 of Eskimo boots and a coat, in the pocket of which 

 were some cartridges, I picked up the Mannlicher and 

 followed at speed in Wells' tracks. We were soon at 



