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Terms, Five Dollars a Year. | 
‘fen Cents a Copy. 
NE 
W YORK, THURSDAY, DEC. tt. 1873. 
Volume f, Number 18. 
103 Fulton Street. 



For Forest and Stream. 
peEt Bes La Oe N. 3 
—+—__ +>. 
ROM the far, untrodden fastneas 
Of the moss-hung everglade, 
From the distant springs that bubble 
In the cypress darkened shade: 
From pools and rippling lakelets, 
Haman eye ne’er gazed upon, 
Flowing into golden sunlight, 
Rolls the beautiful St. John. 
Winding far thro’ virgin forests, 
Where drink unfrightened deer, 
By broad and reedy marshes, 
Where the heron knows no fear; 
Mid groves of tropic richness, 
Laeir verdure never gone, 
Flashing as a royal river, 
Rolls the beautiful St. John. 
Taro’ a land of endless summer, 
Where flowers grace each day, 
And bright-hued birds are singing 
' An unceasing roundelay; 
Whose waves are never fettered 
By mail of ice laid on, 
Reflecting only summer skies, 
Flows the beautiful St. John. 
Lingering like a truant schoolboy, 
Idling on by vine and flower, 
Caressed by light and shadow; 
Caring not for day or hour. 
Seeming loath to leave its birthplace, 
Turning back, then flowing on, 
Tracing lines of grace and beanty, 
Dallies softly the St. John. 
2 
Growing broader, flowing bolder, 
Wave tossed as an inland sea, 
The streamlets of the woodland 
In a mighty union free; 
Then a noble path for commeree, 
That ships float proudly on, 
The welcome of the ocean surf 
Receives the great St. Johu. 
Bat for plaguery chills and fever, 
And such agitating sbaikes;: 
But for scorpions, et cetera, 
And wily rattlesnakes; 
But for the bold mosquito, 
And the pizin moccason ! 
I'd sadly learn to leave thee, 
Thou miasmons St. John. Ge Wiis 
0 
Winter Sparts in Canada. 
Eprror Forest anp StREAM:— 
I send you a short account of moose hunting and trout 
fishing, as pursued in Lower Canada in winter, and my 
personal experience of camping out during the severe 
month of February, when the thermometer marked twenty 
and thirty degrees below zero, and the snow lay deep on 
the lakes and mountains. 
At Malcartier, some fifteen miles from Quebec, we reach 
the farthest settlement north of the St. Lawrence. Here 
commence those,vast forests and mountain ranges that 
extend themselves to the Hudson’s Bay. Throughout its 
entire length it is intersected with numberless lakes and 
rapid shallow rivers. In this primeval wilderness abound 
the lordly moose and caribou of our northern climate, while 
every lake and stream is filled with that fish so dear to ang- 
lers—the trout. The smaller fur-bearing animals are also 
numerous. 
The few remaining Indians in autumn strike far into the 
interior, to return in the spring laden with the proceeds of 
their rifles and traps. Occasional parties from Quebec, 
under the guidance of some Indian, make short excursions 
» to the lakes, and return with glowing accounts of the abun- 
dance of game and the wild and beautiful scenery every- 
where met with. These trips are usually made in summer 
or early autumn. Few have the courage to face the cold 
or the imaginary hardships to be endured in winter, I call 
them imaginary, for without a few of them wherein would 
_ consist the pleasures of wild camp life? 




The stars are still shining brightly, though a faint glim- 
“mer of dawn appears on the horizon. We are up, and has- 
tily completing our preparations for an early start The 
big mare stands ready at the door harnessed to the berline 
which is to covey us and our traps to Roche Platte, some 
ten miles, before we assume in place our snow shoes and 
packs. We lay ina good break‘ast as foundation for the 
long journey before us, and then, lighting our pipes and 
bidding all good-bye, bundle into the sleigh. We wrap 
the buffaloes well around us, for the cold is intense this 
early morn, and giving the old mare a touch with the whip 
Wwe commence to glide over the hard frozen road at a good 
rapid pace. Our traineau, heavily loaded, follows behind. 
Phew, how the sharp wind pinches this morning; but we 
are prepared for it, and only draw our capuchon closer 
over our heads, and defy it to do its-best. We area merry 
party. Mr. Neilson, my kindest of hosts, Pat Cassin, our 
guide and hunter, as genial a fellow as ever drew breath, 
with an inexhaustible fund of dry humor, and your humble 
servant. We make rapid headway, and soon come in sight 
of St. Michel Mountain, whose summit we are destined to 
reach before many hours. The rising sun just tips it, and 
reflects back from its white coverlet of snow a glittering as 
of a huge diamond set in a dark green ground of spruce. 
Our road is well defined over the plain by balises, con- 
sisting of small evergreens set out on each side at regular 
intervals; otherwise, the severe storms that sweep over it 
would completely obliterate all traces of it, and thereby 
destroy all communication between the few settlers at 
Roche Platte and the settlements. The snow at this season 
is five to six feet deep on a level, and where it drifts it is 
fifteen and twenty feet. 
The drive at last comes to an end, and we draw rein be- 
fore Ned’s. We are met with a noisy but cordial welcome, 
and with the assistance of himself and sons we are soon 
ready to take up our packs and march. Here on a river 
point our host has built himself a log house, and cleared 
the few acres that are adapted for cultivation. 
Our snow shoes are buckled on, our packs adjusted, and 
we take up our line of march towards the clouds above. 
Now comes the tug of war. Mountain climbing, at no 
time an easy matter, now rendered doubly arduous on snow 
shoes, which admit of little foothold, or, I should perhaps 
say, too much foothold. We tug and pull and perspire, 
but advance slowly. The point of my snow shoes catches, 
and I make a dive hcadforemost into a depth of ten feet of 
snow, and am extricated with soine difficulty by my com- 
panions after being almost suffocated. After three hours’ 
hard labor, and a few more mishaps, we reach the top, and 
call a halt to rest und admire the panorama spread out be- 
low us. Far to the south we see the tall tin spires of the 
churches in Quebec glistening in the sun. The ice-bound 
St. Lawrence, the Isle of Orleans, and the numerous habi- 
tants’ hamlets dotting its shores, while at our feet winds 
the Jacque Cartier in its tortuous course along till Icst be 
hind some mountain that rears its snow-capped head high 
above the others. 
Pat now warns us to be moving, so lighting our pipes we 
reluctantly follow on. Our road now is only marked by an 
occasional blaze on a tree, which Pat keeps unerringly in 
view. High mouutains encircle us on all sides. We meet 
with a great many fresh tracks at Lake Michel, which our 
coming have doubtless disturbed and started off. We skirt 
the lake to its discharge, and crossing it strike upward 
again. Another halt is called at Lake Tontari, near our 
last summer’s camp, to prepare the noonday meal. We 
scrape the upper snow off the lake, and secure enough 
water to boil our kettle. A fire is kindled on some logs 
from an old chicot, and we are soon enjoying a hearty 
meal. The poles only of our old camp project themselves 
above the snow, which must be here some seven feet in 
depth. This lake is some four miles in length, and in sum- 
mer affords the finest fly fishing I have yet found. I have 
taken in one evening from three to four dozen trout, aver_ 


aging a pound in weight, some few running as high as two 
pounds. The lake is surrounded by mountains which rise 
abruptly on two sides from the water's edge. The echo 
here is perfect. A person speaking slightly above an ordi- 
nary tone of voice will have his words distinctly repeated 
once from the opposite side. At night, in camp, it was a 
great source of amusement. 
As darkness set in we reached Etienne’s cabin, far up in 
the mountains, beside a noisy, turbulent stream, the outlet 
of a small Jake which we have just passed. We find every- 
thing prepared for our arrival—wood cut, a fresh bed of 
balsam boughs laid, and the snow cleared from inside the 
stockade. We are at one of the winter hunting camps of 
Etienne Groslouis, a Lorette? Indian, with whom we had 
made arrangements for our visit early in the season. He is 
now far up the Tuilerie River hunting moose. 
The cabin is constructed of birch bark, stretched over 
poles, with sides and back of split balsam. It is open in 
front before the fireplace, which in turn is surrounded by a 
paling. This serves to keep the snow from caving in. The 
site is badly selected; it is in a gorge of the mountains, 
through which the winds whistle, sending the sparks from 
our fire high into the heavens. How it crackles and blazes, 
sending out such cheery warmth this cold night and diffus- 
ing a pleasant glow that lights up all the surroundings, 
We settle ourselves down before it, and former trips and: 
adventures are once more rehearsed, and our prospect for 
the morrow’s sport discussed at length, 
This morning it is commencing to snow, and the sighing 
winds through the spruce, and the distant roaring of the 
mountains, foretell a heavy storm. Nothing daunted, we 
make things snug about camp, and prepare oursélyes fora 
day’s fishing on the lake. Phew, how the storm sweeps 
over its open surface. I cut a couple of holes through five 
feet of slush and ice, dropped in my lines, and then con- 
structed myself a shelter from my buffalo, which I tied be- 
tween two stakes fastened in the snow, and put myself to 
leeward. We succeeded in taking some dozen before the 
rapidly increasing storm drove us to seck refuge in camp. 
We spent the balance of the day smoking, eating, and lis- 
tening to the howling storm without. Two whisky jacks 
are driven into camp, and now sit on the palisades over the 
fire watching our every motion with curious eyes. What 
cunning, thieving rascals they are: leave anything eatable 
out of your sight for a moment, and they pounce upon it, 
but are off the moment they are observed. 
Clear and intensely cold this morning—thermometer 
down to about twenty degrees below zero. You require to 
handle rifles very gingerly with bare hands. I am off toa 
lake below us to look for moose. Can I succeed in finding 
a yard we may anticipate sport. The moose at this season 
travels but little. The deep snow, with that fearful crust, 
confines them to their feeding ground, and soon bring them 
to bay when pursued, when they fall an easy victim to the 
rifle of the hunter. 
What a death-like stillness pervades everything after the 
storm of yesterday. The only sound that disturbs it is the tap 
ofan occasional woodpecker; otherwise, apparently devoid 
of all animal life. I travelled overa considerable extent 
of country to-day, but no sign of moose. The Indians 
hunting caribou in the early part of the winter has, I think, 
driven them further to the north of our present position, 
Mr. N. and Pat devoted themselves to fishing, but with 
poor success. To-morrow we are going to try a lake 
below us, formed years ago by a beaver dam, on the dis- 
charge of the lake near us. It is growing colder, and we 
are compelled to cut more wood for the night. Iam too 
tired to work, and reluctantly follow Pat with the traineau, 
to draw it in as fast as he cuts it, He selects an old birch, 
and his lusty blows soon lay it low, and cutting it into 
lengths of four feet I roll them on the train, and straddling 
the logs reach camp safely, my dragging feet preventing it 
obtaining too great momentum. 
