Dec. 21, 1912 
FOREST AND STREAM 
781 
that tiny tree had grown there, and the Lord 
only knows how much longer it had been dead, 
hardening and whitening there on that rocky, 
wind-swept little bog island. This dead spruce 
makes a wonderful bed of coals over which to 
“bile the kettle” and broil the bacon at noon 
time, and the green spruce makes a first-class 
fire, aside from its tendency to crackle and 
throw big sparks toward the little paraffined 
cotton tent. There is no birch wood np here 
among the high bogs. 
Bob complained of the scarcity of deer, 
ascribing it to the lateness of the season, for 
the warm weather was only now well over, and 
the little maples scattered about the edges of 
the bog just beginning to redden; Bob said 
they should have turned a month since. The 
hardwood ridges along the hillsides were still 
an green. 
A doe came up the wind within 100 yards 
of our ambush, and I crawled out to take her 
picture. Then about twenty yards apart came 
three does, each with a fawn, all coming out 
of the far end of the bog at the northeast and 
crossing southwest, straight up the wind. After 
a lunch of corn bread, broiled bacon and tea, 
I snuggled down by the fire to. read a little 
leather-bound volume of “The Pirate,” which 
was in the pack-sack. 
About four o’clock Bob suddenly ex¬ 
claimed: “I see three does running a mile 
away across Little Dead Wolf.” The glasses 
showed a fourth, then a stag pursuing them, 
and then another; a good head. Taking only 
the rifle, we made a hard mile run toward a 
point which they must surely pass if coming up 
the wind, occasionally sinking down into the 
soft wet moss up to our hips; I arrived at the 
desired point entirely winded. 
Ten minutes’ waiting, and we saw them 
coming up from the river, having crossed it 
and come straight tip the wind, as we had ex¬ 
pected. The does were leading and stopped to 
feed, the big stag following and the smaller 
one coming up behind. As he approached, the 
old fellow turned and rushed at him, and they 
locked horns, pushing back and forth until the 
youngster, becoming discouraged, fell back, 
narrowly escaping a savage thrust from the 
master. 
I crawled to within 120 yards, then, fearing 
that an eddy of the wind might carry a scent 
to the deer, sat up, and with rifle upon my 
knees, shot the big stag through the lungs. He 
took only one step and stood swaying back and 
forth, as if hit with a sledge, then plunged for¬ 
ward on to the moss, dead. Bob won in the 
100 yard dash which followed, and as I came 
up, cried out: “Hooray for a very beautiful 
head!” His horns were beautifully matched, 
with very sharp points all over, and splendid 
brows of six points each, one middle point ris¬ 
ing straight above his head like the horn of a 
unicorn. These horns were not red, as had 
been those of the other stags, but very yellow. 
The boys said that he was a stag in perfect 
condition, right in his prime, and had lived 
high up about the edges of the bogs, rubbing 
his horns on the small firs, which stained them 
a bright yellow. The red stain is characteristic 
of the deer which rub their horns in the alder 
thickets lower down, as most of them do. 
This was a “saddle back” stag, white upon 
the rump and neck and belly, but brown upon 
back and sides. There is a tradition among 
the natives of Newfoundland that the saddle 
back stags always carry the biggest heads, and 
certainly it held good in this instance at all 
events. Said Bob: “You will hunt Newfound¬ 
land for many a day before getting another 
head so handsome as that in every way.” 
He went back for the camera, and after 
taking pictures and the measurements, we re¬ 
turned to camp with the head and a supply of 
fresh meat, arriving there at dark. Every one 
very happy now; “it’s funny what a difference 
just a few hours make.” “A really universally 
pretty head,” says Lionel. 
It rained in torrents during the night. Just 
what we needed to put the river up again. It 
was clear starlight at breakfast time, and the 
sun rose into a cloudless blue sky as we took 
the trail, Lionel for the head and the fresh 
meat, which we were glad enough to get, the 
rest of us to spend the day way up on the high 
bog. All nature, as well as our own views of 
life, had changed in twenty-four hours. 
“From grave to gay. 
From somber to serene.” 
I had obtained all the heads allowed by my 
license, but hoped for a chance to get some 
photographs of deer in bands. Usually by the 
end of September the deer are banded up into 
herds of ten, fifteen or twenty. The September 
movement of deer is not a migration, but an 
up-wind working from the lowdands into the 
highlands. The migration of deer in herds of 
from twenty to one hundred, does, fawns and 
young stags together, big stags in bands apart, 
occurs after the rutting season, toward the end 
of October. 
We had poor luck with the camera these 
last two or three days before breaking camp, 
but it was good fun prowling around and 
watching the deer. The rheumatism and in¬ 
somnia with which I had been afflicted the 
first few days after we left the railroad had all 
departed, I had picked up weight, and the out¬ 
door life was a constant joy. 
We watched the carcass of our last deer 
for a few hours every day, for Bob said that 
foxes often visited such carcasses, although he 
had known but one bear to do so. We were 
always sure to see upon this bog a few deer, 
perhaps a doe walking along up wind, stopping 
to look back every fifty or sixty yards, as most 
of them do; or a couple of stags grazing at the 
edge of the moss. Ptarmigan were not plenti¬ 
ful, as they are said to be in some other parts 
of the island, although we would see a small 
flock every day or two. These birds object to 
the camera. They will not shoo along over 
the mossy hummocks and look pleasant, as 
their relatives do among the rocks of British 
Columbia. Dozens of dropped horns were 
found all over these bogs, some of them 
gnawed by the mice, but many of them in al¬ 
most perfect condition. 
It began to rain a part of every day. 
There was a good big duck puddle in the fire 
hole in front of the tent, and everything got 
quite sloppy around • camp. Finally after a 
tremendous downpour of rain all night we awoke 
one morning to consider the canoes. Was it pos¬ 
sible that they had not been pulled up far enough 
into the thicket? Could the river have come up 
three or four feet and carried them away? We 
began to feel decidedly uncomfortable in con¬ 
templation of the consequences, and Lionel took 
a load of duffle and made off down the river 
without breakfast. 
While Ralph got breakfast, it rained furi¬ 
ously, and as we finished breaking camp, all the 
spigots of heaven were pulled wide open, light¬ 
ning flashed, thunder rolled, and the water de¬ 
scended in pails full. Slipping and splashing 
across the bog and down the blazed trail, across 
the high, wet benches, through the alder beds 
to the river, we were glad to find the canoes 
safe high up on the bank, with Lionel con¬ 
tentedly smoking his pipe under one of them. 
We made the trip down stream to head camp 
in a few minutes, built a big fire and were soon 
outside of a fine hot lunch. 
[to be concluded.] 
On the things that every sportsman should 
know and think about. Forest and Stream is 
honest, frank and independent. 
the pond stag. 
