134 
us where there are any deer or moose?” 
“O-ves.”* 
“‘ How far will we have to go for them ?” 
“There,”’ and his arm sweeps a lengthy 
section of the horizon in front of us. 
“Oh, yes, we suppose so, but how many 
miles is it?” 
‘“Not far.” 
“But don’t you know how many miles 
we will have to go to get to where those 
deer and moose are?” 
‘“‘Oh, four—five—ten miles,” is the in- 
definite yet exhaustive reply. He appears 
to have made a superhuman effort to 
answer our question, in that he had to 
speak four words too many. 
We then resolve to try a different line 
of questioning in our search for informa- 

A ST. CLAIR RIVER OJIBWA—HE KNOWS HIS WHITE 
BROTHER PRETTY WELL 
RECREATION 
tion, and so ‘smile our pleasure at his 
last answer. 
“How long will it take us to get there?” 
“Not long.” 
“Well, how many hours ?” 
For answer to this he smiles in an 
ignorant way, as if he did not understand; 
so we pull out our watch, and say, “‘ What 
time will we get there?” 
“To-morrow!” 
We now realize that he plans to keep us 
here all night, so that instead of pitching 
our camp to-day near the hunting grounds 
we will not make it until near a day later; 
and our guide is chuckling to himself that 
he will have another half day to rest, and 
full pay for it besides. 
But we must submit peacefully, for there 
is no use to complain against the Indian’s 
procrastination, who believes to-morrow is 
just as good as to-day. And, after all, may 
he not be right? And what does he think 
of us and our hurry? 
We are at last in the virgin forest. 
Michel, our Indian, leads the way. His 
noiseless tread is no mythical saying, for 
no matter whether he is walking on dead 
twigs or moss, his steps make no noise. 
His eyes are alternately switching from 
the ground in front to the never-ending 
maze of trees ahead. Now and then he 
picks up a leaf, or presses his fingers into 
an apparently invisible track of the game 
ahead. As these indications increase, our 
interest becomes greater. Our caution 
inadvertantly is relaxed and a twig snaps 
beneath our feet. The noise to us is slight, 
but the look we get from the pathfinder 
convinces us that we had better be more 
careful. 
Michel’s hunting faculties are aroused. 
His nose is sniffing the air like a well-bred 
setter’s while his eyes indicate that they 
are taking in everything in their range. 
Now he stops—his hand is lifted as a 
caution to stand still. It seems like an 
hour, but perhaps it is not more than a 
minute until he turns on us, muttering 
something like, ‘“‘ Take that off!” 
A glance shows us that we are too con- 
spicuous, for our hunting-coat is one of the 
reversible kind, and we have overlooked the 
fact that it was turned earlier in the morn- 
ing to shield us from a passing shower. 

