A Newfoundland Caribou Hunt 



There is that about the island of Newfound- 

 land which suggests caribou. The rugged 

 ground breaks in flinty billows everywhere, 

 yet leaves now and again a spot of oily calm, 

 a level reach of yellow barren. The wood- 

 lands are evergreens that picture snows and 

 wintry winds even in golden summer days ; 

 and everywhere grow tangles of wiry vines 

 and undergrowth, conquered here and there 

 by the level, bushy tops of berry plants. And 

 beneath all is a soft carpet of gray moss, 

 ankle-deep and moist, which the caribou so 

 dearly love moss, which to them is a luxury 

 in summer, a necessity in winter, a feast al- 

 ways. And then there are a myriad lakes, 

 great and small, lapping incessantly in vain 

 endeavor to smooth their soft beaches of the 

 countless cloven tracks, that vanish in the 

 daylight only to form again like mushrooms 

 in the dark, as countless as before. 



We traveled to Grand Pond by rail and 

 water, and there our outfit met us, and we 



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