further operations on the doe, and 
though we were some distance from 
the stag, we were really in plain sight 
should he happen to glance in our 
direction. Standing perfectly still, we 
watched him for several moments won- 
dering as to whether we would be able 
to reach any cover as to approach 
unseen, while the old fellow, concluding 
that he liked his commanding lookout, 
turned round once or twice and lay 
down to chew the cud of contentment 
on top of his hill. We, at the same 
moment, sat quietly down to have a 
look at things. The hill must have 
between five and six hundreds yards 
away, and a careful look through the 
glasses showed us that its front broke 
off near the top, in a rough brushy ‘cliff 
which rose some sixty feet above a low 
line of evergreens beneath. Here was 
our opportunity, if we could get under 
the brow of the hill we could easily scale 
the broken cliff and find ourselves right 
on the edge of the old stag’s boudoir. 
The wind would be a great help as 
it was blowing a gale in our faces and 
would help to deaden any posisble noise 
made by us in our climb. Backing 
quietly off the little marsh on which I’d 
killed the doe, we gained the cover of 
some blasted junipers and moving 
through these made our way into the 
firs at the foot of the cliff. We had 
marked the spot carefully and judged 
that we must be directly under the hill 
on which we had seen the game. We 
both had on soft moccasins which mate- 
rially aided us in climbing stealthily 
up the almost perpendicular ascent. 
Fissures in the rocks and small ledges 
from which sprouted tough little bushes, 
however, helped us and coming level 
with the top we peeped just over. Not 
twenty feet beyond and partly screened 
by some low brush, we saw a big pair 
of branching antlers. The wind was 
rattling things about so that in addition 
to taking the precaution of holding 
my trigger back so that no click could 
be heard as I cocked my rifle, I raised 
ever so little and lined the sights just 
back of the old fellow’s eye. At such 
a range no one could miss, and so 
pierced fairly through the brain, the 
old stag never rose to his feet, his 
head suddenly drooping down on his 
heathery bed. 
The horns were heavy and sym- 
metrical, the broadly palmated tines 
bearing upwards of forty points and 
though it was still early in the day 
we had all the work we wanted before 
we got his skin and antlers and the 
doe back to camp. 
As we got well into October, the 
weather became increasingly stormy 
with frequent flurries of snow and 
sleet, so on the twelfth, heavily laden 
with our trophies, we made a start for 
the river which we reached about noon 
the next day. 
Page 57 
In writing to Advertisers mention Forest and Stream. 
The following morning, with every- 
thing stowed in the canoe, which fairly 
bristled with horns, we dropped down 
river and thence through Deer Lake 
and the Lower Humber, arriving late 
the third evening at Bay of Islands 
and at the end of a most interesting 
and delightful trip. From here, the 
Steamer Harlow took me to Halifax 
where I caught the first train to 
New York, thus ending over four 
months of voyaging in the northern 
wilderness. 
Accessibly situated as Newfound- 
land is, both for sportsmen of the 
eastern states or of England, I know 
of no country that for a very econom- 
ical outlay both in time and money 
offers as much in the way of sport 
under the pleasantest conditions and 
in a largely virgin country . 
BELOW THE SNOW LINE 
Those who have a speaking acquaint- 
ance with the localities and who are 
blessed with an innate love of adven- 
turing on the less frequented mountain 
trails in the odd corners of the world, 
will find much of interest and charm in 
Douglas W. Freshfield’s ‘Below the 
Snow Line,” published by E. P. Dutton 
& Co. Mr. Freshfield, who is a former 
president of the Alpine Club and the 
Royal Geographical Society, is gifted 
with a style of writing that is at once 
delightful and refreshing. His chatty 
discourses on Corsican scenery with its 
many sublime and exquisite aspects and 
its palms and orange groves; on the 
Kabyle Highlands where the sunny 
fountains of the Atlas roll between 
lanes of pink oleanders; on the aspho- 
dels of Greece and the beech forests of 
Bosnia—these and a host of other mem- 
ories of walks and climbs among the 
lesser ranges of the Old World are por- 
trayed in a manner totally irresistible 
and fascinating. ’ 
More such records of travel from this 
author’s facile pen should find the 
ready demand they merit on the book- 
sellers’ shelves. 


BOYS! 
Don’t fail to enroll in the 
Sonnyboy Fishing Contest. 
See announcement on page 
14 for particulars. 








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