8 A SPORTING PARADISE 



bay, where I recline in my boat, gazing upon 

 wooded isles, forest, creek, and rock. The 

 shores on the left are low and swampy, and 

 a natural river has for ages drained the hills 

 above. The beavers once chose this spot for 

 a site, and their dam and hive-shaped domes 

 can be faintly seen. On the right hand is 

 a crescent-shaped sandy beach, and farther on 

 huge black rocks lean over, as though threaten- 

 ing to crush out the life of any living creature 

 that may seek a shelter beneath. Here the 

 water, from continual friction, has hollowed out 

 a natural cavern. This is perhaps the most 

 cherished place in Crane Lake for a deer-run. 

 The long wooded peninsula that joins the beaver- 

 swamp extends into the lake for nearly a mile ; 

 and when the stag breaks cover, he has no 

 other choice than to proceed along this narrow 

 strip of land, or to plunge into the waters of 

 the bay. As night approaches, I hear the sound 

 of some heavy- animal forcing a way through 

 the thick undergrowth which borders the beaver- 

 swamp. A wolf rounds the point, but passes 

 swiftly on, intent upon following the strong scent 

 of a deer. A fox skulks beneath the shadow 

 of the rocks, watching a large hare that has 



