NKIVFOUNDLANI) CARIBOU HUNTING 



243 



amined with the glasses and sorted over 

 so often that many of the real old bulls, 

 the white-necked partriarchs of forty 

 or forty-five points, have fallen. Small 

 deer are still abundant, but the migra- 

 tion hunter, after seeing fifty to one 

 hundred every day of his trip, is sur- 

 prised at the very small proportion of 

 really good heads to inferior ones. This 

 prevailing' notion that all the caribou 

 migrate is incorrect. The whole central 

 and southern interior contains the year 

 around thousands of non-migratory 

 animals, or those which, as a result of 

 the railroad's pernicious influence, have 

 willingly forsaken their old-time custom. 

 Consequently they have escaped the 

 murderous fusillade around Grand Lake. 

 During the summer of 1901 the writer, 

 when poling up a stream in a locality 

 considerably south of the centre of the 

 island, jumped six well antlered bulls 

 in one afternoon. In a three weeks' 

 trip the proportion of fair heads was 

 about one in five or six to the total 

 number seen. Hunting along the north- 

 ern line of the railroad during the mi- 

 gration, this proportion, it is safe to 

 estimate, would have been about one in 

 thirty or forty. 



A journey into the interior is, of 

 course, more of a task than a comfort- 



able paddle down Grand Lake or up 

 the 1 Lumber River, but, after all, it is 

 only the difficulties to be overcome 

 which make big game hunting a sport. 

 Aside from their wonderful powers of 

 scent, caribou are stupid beasts at 

 best, easily stalked and far inferior to 

 white-tailed deer in acuteness. They 

 may be killed by any inexperienced 

 hand who has pluck enough to climb 

 the hills. The real hunter, however, 

 the man who appreciates success only 

 after sustained effort, who desires more 

 than a mere target for his rifle, will 

 shoulder his pack and strike off into the 

 wilderness of the interior. There he 

 will behold a glorious panorama stretch- 

 ing away to the horizon ; a country of 

 lakes and rocky ridges, of rolling bar- 

 rens and thick spruce forests, where 

 the trails are still untrodden. He will 

 listen to the honk of wild geese flying 

 to the feeding grounds, and at night- 

 fall he will hear the sudden splash of 

 beaver working in the ponds. Should 

 he look carefully he may see a bear 

 feeding among the blueberries, or, per- 

 chance, a lynx slinking off among the 

 shadows. But, above all, he will 

 find the heards still unmolested, and 

 whitenecked stags roaming the open 

 hills. 



NOMADS 



By FRANK LEO PINET 



1. 



The stars are nomads, and they march 



In silent troops by night ; 

 The stars are nomads, and they march 



With links of flaming light. 



11. 



Over the world and under the world, 

 An endless journey they make; 



Over the world and under the world, 

 Until the bright day break. 



