BEFRIENDING CAMPERS 71 



busily scrambling up and down the bank. One of 

 them lashed the water with his tail so palpably that I 

 looked up and down for the cause of the disturbance. 

 Soon I heard the soft dip of a paddle, and a canoe 

 came in sight. It held two campers, wet through 

 from the previous night's storm. Their canvas tent 

 had been deluged and their blankets and clothes 

 soaked through. They were Americans. With 

 praiseworthy self-denial, Mark vacated his bed in their 

 interests. More fish was fried and the fire repleted 

 with logs. Around it stories were told of Chicago 

 and New York, Rockies and prairies, and much 

 incense was offered to my Lady Nicotine. 



I wandered out under the stars and again listened 

 to that mysterious negative, the silence of the forest. 

 The river flowed without a murmur, and thoughts 

 flashed over continent and seas to dear ones far away. 

 For the moment I was no longer in Canada, but by a 

 favourite river and close to a farm homestead. Why, 

 there was the howling of the dogs . . . dogs . . . farm 

 . , . surely ..." Mark, Mark ! " I cried, hastening 

 back to the hut, " what's that howling ? " The 

 ranger came out and listened, " Wolves, sir ; ah, the 

 devils ! " For in a moment the howling burst into 

 a chorus not a hundred yards beyond the river. 

 Then followed a charge and snapping of twigs and a 

 mad rush through the forest. They were after the 

 deer. We listened to the venomous cry until it died 

 away in the distance, leaving behind the intense 



