3 l6 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[Aug. 22, 1908. 
THE DU PONT LIST FOR 1900 
Birmingham, Ala., May 6-8: 
THE SOUTHERN HANDICAP. 
The Preliminary Handicap. . 
High Average for the Entire Tournament. 
Columbus, O., June 23-26: 
THE GRAND AMERICAN HANDICAP. 
The Professional Championship. 
Tie for First Place in the Amateur Championship. 
High Average for the Entire Tournament. 
High Amateur Average. 
Second and Third Moneys in the Preliminary Handicap. 
The Long Run of the Tournament—196 Straight. 
Boston, Mass., July 14-16: 
THE EASTERN HANDICAP. 
The Preliminary Handicap. 
High General Average for the Entire Tournament. 
High Amateur Average for the Entire Tournament. 
The above honors were won by shooters who used 
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BY CANOE TO THE NORTH.—II. 
Continued from page 306. 
the other side of Bear Island. The devil—he 
lives there—he swallow up Indian if he go too 
close.” 
This was the first long speech Peeshabo had 
made. I thought of Thoreau: 
“Faintly o’er the wearied billows 
Come the spirits of the brave.” 
* * * * * * 
“Thus perchance the Indian hunter 
Many a lagging year agone, 
Gliding o’er the rippling waters, 
Lowly hummed a natural song.” 
So this was the Algonquin’s paradise. I 
looked about me. It seemed a beautiful happy 
hunting ground for all races. Overhead rolled 
great dazzling white cumulous clouds and under¬ 
neath, mirrored on the surface of the water, 
rolled the same great clouds. I almost felt them 
brush my face. The distant shores, reflected on 
the lake and distorted by. the heat waves, ap¬ 
peared to be part of the cloud system. The bow 
of the canoe, as a part of me, seemed to cut 
the rolling white clouds and blue sky, and the 
motion of paddling was the rise and fall of 
flying. Somewhere far below may have been 
the earth or many earths or the entire planetary 
universe. 
“Bear Island,” grunted Peeshabo as he raised 
the stroke and rounded a point. “Quay,” he called 
to Indian women on the shore and “Quay,” they 
replied, meaning in English Plello. Before us 
appeared about fifteen log cabins, a log church 
with a belfry and some tents on a clearing that 
sloped gently down to the water. Two men 
were in swimming, boys played on the shore, 
and a big black husky tugged at his chain and 
barked at us. 
Here was a real Hudson’s Bay post that came 
up to all expectations, but which was after all 
only a short distance from New York. 
The factor, with an appearance of reluctance 
because it was Sunday, opened his store and 
sold us supplies. Four bushy-whiskered pros¬ 
pectors, just in from a three months’ trip to 
James Bay, had wonderful stories to tell; so 
that it was almost night when we pushed out 
again into the floating clouds and continued our 
journey in the air. But a thunderstorm soon 
broke the spell and forced us ashore to make 
camp for the night. Thirty miles had been 
covered in the day. 
Monday was beautiful , and crystalline, al¬ 
though during the morning the wind kicked up 
nasty seas that tumbled solid green into the 
canoe and finally forced us ashore for two 
hours. The water was remarkably clear. I 
noticed a gull seated unconcernedly on a little 
rock out in the middle of the lake. The woods 
were full of big rabbits—varying hares. 
Sharp Rock Portage took us into Non-wa-ka- 
mining, or lake between the two lakes—Lady 
Evelyn and Temagami. A few minutes after 
pushing away from shore, Bill, who was troll¬ 
ing, caught a half dozen bass. Straight ahead 
of us the sun was setting gorgeously between 
two hills at the western end of the lake. The 
water was as smooth as glass. Over in a bay 
about a mile to our right were a bull and cow 
moose moving slowly about in the marsh grass. 
Further on was a log hut that had been aban¬ 
doned by the big company after crushing a rival 
trader who had used it as a post. Across the 
lake on a point we made camp for the night. 
Nonwakaming was easily the most beautiful of 
all the lakes that we had been upon. After 
supper we sat on the outermost rock of our 
point and enjoyed the view. The purple rays 
of the sunset were reflected on the lake in the 
long afterglow. The wild shrieks of two loons 
calling and answering were echoed from the 
hills. The evening owl must have been a huge 
bird, tor I never heard such a sepulchral deep 
“hoo, hoo-hoo, hoo, hoo—hoo” over and over 
again. It was the last sound I heard before 
falling asleep. 
On Tuesday night we were in camp a hun¬ 
dred yards below the famous pool of trout. 
All day Bill and Peeshabo had pushed ahead 
like speed fiends and ignored my pleas to tarry 
FOREST AND STREAM PUBLISHING CO. 
