*7 



CHAPTER IV. 



HE 21st day of October opened fairly fine, 

 and the Fates seemed forbearing as I 

 made my preparations for a long day in 

 the forest. I was early astir, and the 

 inhabitants seemed to be still deep in 

 their slumbers as I wended my way past 

 the few houses at the head of the North- 

 West Arm. 



With the exception of a few crows clamouring afar 

 off as they straggled away in search of an early break- 

 fast, the first living thing that met my gaze was a 

 pretty little " chipping squirrel," " chipmunk," or 

 ground squirrel as it is variously called. There he sat, 

 on the bottom rail of the fence at the roadside, holding 

 a nut or berry in his little fore-paws, with his fearless 

 gaze turned round upon me as if to question the right 

 of my intrusion — but without a trace of fear. All the 

 stories and traditions of this little animal, treasured up 

 for generations in the mighty country that overshadowed 

 me even then, rushed through my mind as I beheld the 

 little " chipmunk " for the first time in his native 

 haunts. How different he and his surroundings were 

 to the captives or the " specimens " I had hitherto only 

 known ! My eye wandering over the scene took in the 

 fearless little creature sitting there before me on the 

 rough-hewn rail, with the straggling bushes on either 

 hand, while behind the grassy strip of meadow sloped 

 down to the dark basin of Chocolate Lake, with the 



