JACK-SHOOTKG IN A FOGGY NIGHT. 191 



I knew that the deer's head was under water ; and 

 shortly, in answer to my hail, the guide appeared, 

 dragging the buck behind him. The deer was 

 drowned and quite dead. Drawing my knife across 

 the still warm throat, we bled him well, and, wait- 

 ing for Martin to rest himself a moment, slid him 

 down into the boat and stretched him at full 

 length along the bottom. Taking our places at 

 either end, and, lifting our paddles, we turned our 

 faces campward. Down tlirough the dense, damp 

 fog, cleaving with dripping faces its hea\y folds, we 

 passed ; gUded out of the mist and darkness of the 

 lowland upon the clear waters of the lake, now 

 lively with ripples, and under the brightly shining 

 stars, nor checked our measured stroke until we 

 ran our shell ashore in the glimmer of the fire, by 

 the side of which, rolled in his blanket, with his 

 jacket for his pillow, John was quietly sleeping. 

 At the touch of the boat on the beach he started 

 up, and the coffee he had made ready to boil at 

 our coming was shortly ready, and, as we drank 

 the warming beverage with laughter which startled 

 the ravens from the pines, and woke the loons, 

 sleeping on the still water of Beaver Bay, we told 

 John the story of our adventure with a buck up 

 Marion Eiver on a foggy night. And often, as I 

 sit in my study, hot and feverish with toil which 

 wearies the brain and wrinkles the face, I pause, 

 and, throwing down pen and book, fancy myseK 



