FisHING THROUGH THE IcE. 197 

soft tanned moosehide moccasins; pack our load from the 
pung upon the toboggans, and lash them in such a manner 
that should we upset occasionally we can tip back again all 
solid as before. Slipping on the show-shoes, we are ready, 
and away, on our three mile tramp (playing horse) and 
really enjoying it much over such a fine crust, with the moon 
keeping us company on the way, over our north and south 
blazed line, through the now really wild, unbroken forest to 
the hunting lodge. Almost every rod of the way is familiar 
to us, from our landmarks; the lay of the land, the brooks, a 
clump of evergreens, the rocky rise and quick descent, then 
along the side of the ridge close to the swamp, the beeches on 
the knoll and the merry little brooks. 
Having all the time there is, we take the up grades slowly, 
often resting on the top a moment and admiring the lovely 
moonlit forest, so still and quiet everywhere among its lights 
and shadows. On such an evening the nightly ramblers were 
no doubt abroad as usual, but excepting ‘‘ bunny,” with his 
bright eyes at this time wide open, as he skipped away from 
our moving shadows, and a night warbler overhead in the 
thick spruce trees, favoring us with a short song, all seemed 
at quiet rest. 
Coming to the down grades, we take the webbing from our 
shoulders, with which we haul the toboggans, and guiding 
the sleds outside the track, and along beside us, take an Indian 
lope down to the long levels below, which again require but 
little exertion to pull the loads over the level crust. Here 
looking back for a long way behind, we see a straight and 
narrow road made level by our snow-shoes, and leaving the 
tracks of our wide beech runners shining in the moonlight. 
Upon this now well packed road, should we have a rain, and 
