A Newfoundland Caribou Hunt 



the upper end of this Sandy Pond water, and 

 for two hours we paddled back and forth 

 hunting it. While doing so a band of caribou 

 were sighted upon the beach a mile away, and 

 my father and William stalked them in the 

 canoe while we watched. But the three bulls 

 of the band all proved too small, and, after 

 chasing them down the shore to see them run, 

 the hunters returned empty-handed. 



Then we found the stream we sought, and 

 began to ascend it. Its mouth had formed a 

 delta into the lake, and the channel wound in 

 and out and about in a most fearful and won- 

 derful fashion, that kept us guessing, and more 

 over, board, pushing and shoving, than in board. 

 But an hour's toiling brought us safely through 

 and well into the main stream, and a more 

 beautiful stretch of water I have never seen. 



Deep and purple black it wound between 

 banks that overhung our heads with a wreath 

 of verdure, flamed scarlet here and there by a 

 species of wild cranberry. It was an ideal 

 trout stream, and at the foot of the rapids we 

 camped beside that night we caught as many 

 of the speckled aristocrats as we desired and 

 as the pan demanded. 



The next morning we were off early, and as 

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