and the Maritime Provinces. 213 



tried to draw a dead cold bead on the living target from a bark canoe, 

 which is being wafted up and down by the gently undulating waters of a 

 lake, will comprehend the feelings of a man in the bow. However, as it 

 afterwards appeared, my first shot at the bull was not wasted, the bullet 

 passing through his neck. He turned partly around, and faced out into 

 the lake in an attitude of deep contemplation, as though he had been 

 stung by some new kind of fly unknown to his experience. Neither of the 

 caribou seemed to see the canoe, or heed the crash of the rifle. A second 

 shot, delivered at somewhat closer range, went through the bull's anatomy 

 behind the shoulder, and he dropped in the water without a sign of protest. 

 The cow did not appear to realize that she was a widow. She turned her 

 shapely head quietly around, took a casual glance at the dear departed, 

 and seemed to think that the old gentleman was indulging in the unwonted 

 luxury of a bath. By this time, however, the cook had reached the explo- 

 sive point. His excitement over these events, and his rooted prejudice 

 against the prospect of more bull caribou meat for the larder, made a ter- 

 rific inroad upon his slender store of sanity, and the roar of the shot-gun 

 in close proximity to my valued right ear, acquainted me with the solemn 

 fact that Jack was attempting to mow down the cow with duck-shot! A 

 realizing sense of the uncertainty of life then seemed to dawn upon the 

 cow, and she bounded up the bank and into the woods like a flash. The 

 next feature of the programme was an involuntary plunge of the distracted 

 Jack into the lake, from which he made his way with difficulty to the shore. 

 He, too, vanished in the woods, and I believe searched for the remains of 

 the cow long and faithfully, but all in vain. The proceedings when we 

 reached the camp were of an exceedingly festive description, for it pres- 

 ently transpired that at the selfsame hour when I was acquiring the caribou, 

 Fred was covering himself with glory by shooting an exceptionally fine 

 specimen of a bull moose. 



I have hunted caribou on the snow but once, and a most exciting 

 experience it proved to be. The guide was a Milicite .Indian and our 

 camping place was near Rocky brook. We had killed a moose after a 

 long chase up the frozen stream and, having consumed the remainder of 

 the day in hauling the meat to camp, decided to cruise the barrens for 

 caribou on the following morning. The air was still and frosty and not a 

 sign of life appeared on the melancholy waste of snow as we silently 

 skirted the big barren. There was plenty of snow for good snow-shoeing, 

 but we could have wished that the pendant branches of the trees had not 

 upheld so generous a supply of that material. More than once as we 

 brushed against an overhanging bough, a miniature avalanche of snow 

 was launched down the back of our necks, causing our reflections for the 

 moment to be anything but reverent. John found many traces of the 

 recent presence of caribou, but none that appeared fresh enough to deserve 



