138 



THE ARCTIC PRAIRIES 



bloom, richest and reddest of its tribe — the Athabaska 

 rose. At times it is skirted by tall poplar woods where 

 the claw-marks on the trunks are witness of the many 



Blackbears, or some tamarack 

 swamp showing signs and proofs 

 that hereabouts a family of 

 Moose had fed to-day, or by a 

 broad and broken trail that told 

 of a Buffalo band passing weeks 

 ago. And while we gazed at 

 scribbled records, blots, and 

 marks, the loud "slap plong" of 

 a Beaver showed from time to 

 time that the thrifty ones had dived at our approach. 

 On the way up Jarvis had gone first in the small 

 canoe; he saw 2 Bears, 3 Beaver, and 1 Lynx; I saw 

 nothing but birds. On the way down, being alone, 

 the luck came my way. 

 At the first camp, after he left, we heard a loud 



Cornel 



Ground Juniper, Juniperus sabina 



"plong" in the water near the boat. Bezkya glided 

 to the spot; I followed — here was a large Beaver 

 swimming. The Indian fired, the Beaver plunged, 

 and we saw nothing more of it. He told Billy, who 

 told me, that it was dead, because it did not slap with 



