458 
was really the Isaac’s Harbor River. Of course 
I had to make nearly a complete detour before 
coming upon it, so that I had begun to think I 
had chanced on another lake and was therefore 
lost. But no, what was that? The faint rush¬ 
ing of water? To be sure, and here was the out¬ 
let itself with a big log across it, as described to 
me by Dave. 
By this time I had begun to feel rather peck¬ 
ish, though the berries were plentiful. I had 
reckoned on a partridge or two, or at very least, 
a young porcupine, that should furnish me with 
my favorite woodland “dish,” roast porky’s liver 
on a stick. But I saw but one flock of grouse, 
which was wild and unapproachable, and never a 
porky, young or old. And that thirty pounds on 
my back—how the weight increased. And how 
that dratted camera case banged against my side 
with every step. I had another fine drink of 
spring water with a mouthful of cress, and be¬ 
gan to follow the river down. But it was not 
long before I discovered that it made a rather 
wide bend westward, and that, before I got back 
to the place on the map where the west branch 
was nearest to the east, it would be pretty late. 
I had a council of war with my compass and 
watch, and concluded that, if I hoped to get to 
Lawlor’s by dark I should have to cut across 
country. It wouldn’t have mattered much, ex¬ 
cept Mr. Knight would be worried about me. 
knowing that I had never before been in this 
end of Guysboro county. I then started straight 
for the head of Lawlor’s Lake, but it was in the 
sweet confidence of ignorance, for, had I known 
what I was to go through, I would have had 
gone “any old way” round that was easier. 
The fact was that the compass led me over a 
series of ridges that were separated by deep 
gulches, filled up with briar-covered copses and 
entangled scrub growths. Much of the travel¬ 
ing was done literally on my hands and knees, 
with my pack getting caught every minute or so. 
There is no need to describe at great length 
this seven or eight mile scramble up and down 
that virgin wilderness. The last part of it was 
FOREST AND STREAM 
no fun at all, and I should probably have made 
camp before dark had it not been for a peculiar 
sound that came to me as I sat resting with my 
back against a log on the top of a ridge about 
six o’clock in the afternoon, after ten hours of 
continuous travel. From time to time I talked 
through my bark horn, occasionally letting out a 
loud call, but the air was heavy in the drizzle, and 
the sound could not go far. Below me, accord¬ 
ing to the compass, lay the east branch of the 
stream, and from there came this noise, a pe¬ 
culiar whining howl. 
“A bear!” I thought at first, for a bear can 
make almost any noise on earth. But again it 
sounded, and this time it was so deep and caver 
nous that no lungs in the northern wilderness 
but those of a moose could produce it. I rose 
and slung my pack on my back, and looked to 
my rifle. It was extraordinary how quickly my 
fatigue left me. In a minute I was tearing down 
through that awful tangle of branch and rock 
and briar, until I stopped after going about half 
a mile, on the edge of a little meadow, through 
which the east branch ran. Listening for some 
time I heard nothing, but I soon found quite 
fresh tracks leading down-stream, which suited 
me, as that was my way back to camp. It was 
ideal weather for still-hunting, for the ground 
was heavy and wet and dripping woods drowned 
almost any sound. Proceeding swiftly but care¬ 
fully, I soon heard the old bull grunting to his 
wife, and occasionally a whine of impatience 
from her, as if saying, “Behave yourself, you 
silly old fool!” There was no wind that I could 
perceive in that deep and dense valley, and all I 
had to do was to steal up on them with greatest 
care, guided by their conversation, which was 
constant though desultory. 
All at once, as I rose to my feet after creep¬ 
ing across a little stretch of long grass, I saw 
standing before me with legs apart and staring 
eyes, an awkward little idiot of a calf-moose. 
For a second we stood gazing at each other mo¬ 
tionless. I expected every moment that it would 
let out a squeal, as usual, and stampede the rest 
of the family, but, for some reason as yet un¬ 
known to man (I have long ceased wondering 
about the acts of moose), the little chap did 
nothing of the kind, but backed slowly into the 
thicket. Very carefully I followed until, when 
we had gone ten yards or so, it wheeled and ran 
off to my left. Putting my horn to my lips I 
squealed like a calf and dropped silently into the 
wet moss. The mother whined and the old fel¬ 
low grunted and I could hear the swishing of the 
trees in front. All at once I saw something black 
on my right, and I instinctively covered it with 
my rifle, while waiting to see more clearly what 
the sex of the animal was. The cracking of a 
stick on my left made me turn quickly and there 
I saw the bull standing half facing me, but ap¬ 
parently not seeing me. It was the work of a 
second to whirl, bring down the muzzle of the 
terrible .35 to his neck and pull the trigger. A 
subdued crash followed the shot, and then a 
short struggle and silence. The ten hours’ hunt 
was over, and the bull down. 
When it was all over and my blood had re¬ 
turned to its normal temperature, my great fa¬ 
tigue came over me again. For the life of me 
I could not have cut a steak off that beast. Nor 
was I hungry at all. I was just sleepy. I cal¬ 
culated that it could not be far now from the 
lake, but dusk was upon me, and I had just time 
to collect some dry stuff out of stumps, make 
a small fire, and crawl into my Comfort Pocket 
at a spot just a few yards up the ridge on higher 
ground. My eyes had closed and I was almost 
over the way into the Land of Nod when I 
heard a shot very near me. It was the men in 
the canoe at the head of Lawlor’s. I could not 
say whether I was glad or sorry. I did not 
like staying out all night in the rain, and yet \ 
did so want to sleep! 
But the upshot of it was that I had a fine 
hat supper at Lawlor’s Camp, and saving my 
host a lot of worry. 
Guysboro is an undiscovered country for the 
Yankee tourist. When you go, take Dave with 
you, and a .35 Winchester is apt to come in very 
handy. But don’t go traveling off the trail for 
all day without an emergency lunch with you! 
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