The Metamorphosis of a Greenhorn 
In Which the Effects of the New Diet Make Him Reluctant to Return Home, but his Newly Acquired 
Chapter III. 
HERE were two deer carcasses, 
two large satchels, several bun¬ 
ches of grouse and a rifle in the 
canoe, at the side of which 
Steve waited for Bill one dark, 
November morning. As he set¬ 
tled himself in the bow and 
dropped his paddle into the 
water, he saw the stern of the second canoe con- 
taning other carcasses and luggage, Aeneas, and 
Bert the other guide, just passing out of sight 
round the first bend of the stream below camp. 
Their vacation ended, they were “going out.” 
Though yet mistrustful of the eccentric habits 
of the frail-ribbed, canvas covered craft that, 
when skillfully handled exhibits astonishing util¬ 
ity and marvellous carrying capacity, Bill had 
learned awkwardly to paddle it. With a some¬ 
what noisy stroke he “swirled the placid water at 
the bow into tiny maelstroms that circled away 
like paired dancers,” while Steve at the stern with 
vigirous, silent sweeps, neutralizing the uneven¬ 
ness of his efforts, deftly turned Bill’s expended 
energy to account in pushing the canoe steadily 
onward. As they, in turn, rounded the first bend 
and settled down to the task of propelling them- 
Philosophy Comes to his Aid 
(Concluded From March Forest and Stream ) 
By W. H. Bentley. 
selves and the load down to the saw mill landing, 
the regretful realization that he was “going out” 
came fully into Bill’s mind, and the expression 
took on a keener significance than it had ever 
before had for him. 
The morning was chilly, and an overcast sky 
against which the bare limbs of the overhanging 
trees appeared in bold silhouette, gave evidence 
of the persistence of a threatening, northeast 
wind. Hemmed in by low banks on which leafless 
alders crowded in jungle-like profusion, the slug¬ 
gish stream on its distant surface gave back only 
the reflection of the dull, drab sky, though so 
clear was the water, that close at hand as the 
canoe shot along, one could see the black corpses 
of sunken logs lying like huge, menacing reptiles 
in their shadowed lair. 
As the canoe swung sharply round the second 
bend, Bill looked for the ’coon tracks that once 
dotted the shingle there; but the heartless, swol¬ 
len stream had obliterated every one. At God¬ 
dard’s hole he hoped to spy the muskrat that lived 
in the farther bank, whose whiskered features 
time and again he had vainly tried to catch on an 
exposed plate, as he moved about his deep- 
shadowed home; but there was no motion in the 
dooryard nor sign of living thing. He thought. 
perhaps, he might catch sight of the sheldrakes 
that dabbled among the lily pads at Storehouse 
cove; but though he scanned the shallow place 
from bank to bank, there was not a ripple on the 
surface there. 
He would have liked to push the canoe ashore 
at the end of the low ridge along which he and 
Steve, one day, had strolled and talked with little 
thought of gun or game, for but a hundred rods 
along the tiny trail that, starting from the stream 
eventually lost itself in the heavy growth farther 
back, was a shallow water hole; and beneath the 
fallen leaves and twigs that veneered its slippery 
bed, lurked danger for the strategist of the 
woods; the sly, red fox. 
“There’s a trap in there.” said Steve that day, 
as he halted and pointed his rifle at the water 
hole. “There ain’t much use settin’ ’em on dry 
ground. The pan’s jest under that chunk o’ moss, 
there, where a fox is likely to step. Them fellers 
is mighty careful ’bout pokin’ their feet in the 
water, an’ in gittin’ over a place like that they al¬ 
ways pick out a high place to step on. Now that 
chunk o’ moss looks as if there was a stone under 
it, an’ suit’ble for steppin’ on; but the kind o’ 
stone that’s under there’ll clip a fox’s toe nails 
pretty dumbed dost.” 
