
ON ST. PATRICKS MARSHES 
A Tale of Caribou-Hunting in Newfoundland 
BY SID HOWARD 
ILLUSTRATED FROM PHOTOGRAPHS BY THE AUTHOR 
E WERE camped on 
the middle lead, Pat- 
rick’s Pond, where the 
falls stop the salmon 
for awhile ere they 
gather force of will 
and strength of tail to 
jump to the level above. 
Old John, the Labra- 
dor «fisherman, seal 
hunter and Methodist 
deacon in the harbor 
of Chimney Tickle, was 
for the nonce head 
guide, and Billy was cook. 
“We'll take a kettle and a piece o’ meat, 
some of us,” said old John, “‘and cruise 
away over to St. George’s Mountain to- 
day.” 
“Some of us,’’ meant Sam, of course. 
That was a foregone conclusion. The rest 
of us meant Billy and me. 
John paused to sniff the frost in the air 
and take a long look at the mist of dawn in 
the sky. Then he crossed to the fire and 
helped himself to a piece of caribou meat 
with his fork, carefully pouring a little 
puddle of grease from the frying-pan into 
the center of the steak. Another pan filled 
with the red steaks of salmon was there if 
he chose to take advantage of it, but John 
never did so. There was only one fish in all 
the waters of the earth for John, and that 
was cod. Salmon was salmon, but cod 
was ‘‘fish,” and so it is for all the natives 
of that fog-bound isle. 
“We'll take our glasses,” continued old 
John, seating himself on the cook’s bake- 
board, namely, the side of a soap box. 
““My eyes ain’t what they used to be.” 
Considering the fact that John could 
see spikehorns at a mile and a-half, and 
them in the velvet, one might have thought 
his sight still fairly well preserved. 

“Will we take the rifle?” asked Sam. 
“Tf you think you can carry it,” sug- 
gested Old John. 
“Carry it, you old cod-fish! If you 
think we’ll see anything I'll show you 
whether I can carry it or not.” 
“We'll see caribou to-day, sure,” af- 
firmed Old John, with his mouth full. 
So after breakfast they started blithely 
forth, leaving the cook and me to our own 
cheerful devices. 
A big, curly-headed fellow was Billy, 
with an apparently perpetual cold in his 
head and an equally perpetual pipe in his 
mouth. He helped me to a leisurely break- 
fast. 
“Billy,” said I, “‘what’s the matter with 
you and me going out and rounding up a 
caribou P” 
‘All right, sir,” said Billy, not at all 
surprised. In great calm he proceeded 
to wash the dishes, puffing at his pipe the 
while and snuffling at metric intervals. 
It was a chilly, foggy morning and I kept 
him company by the fire until he washed 
the breakfast things up and baked a batch 
of biscuits. By that time the mist had 
cleared off the barren and presently, about 
to o’clock, Billy and I ventured out of our 
“‘droke” onto the bog. 
The great wet prairie of the middle 
lead, yellow with sunlight, lay before us 
bounded by a distinct fringe of timber. 
We headed diagonally across the marsh, 
keeping the breeze, what there was of it, 
on our right cheek. A mile from the camp 
we came on a fresh trail of hoofs in the 
moss. 
“Tt’s a cow and a stag,” said Billy, 
solemnly, taking the pipe from his mouth. 
‘They have started.” 
‘‘Started where,” asked I. 
“Started to come,” said Billy. 
We stared over the glistening bog, flat 
