did. This was the first really uncomfortable day we had had--but our

troubles were soon forgotten, and over a roaring camp fire and with a tot of rum each, we looked forward hopefully to our prospects for the next few days. The morning of the 16th was fine, the sun was shining brightly, the glass was rising, a fresh north-east wind was blowing, altogether a perfect stalking day.

The Shoe Hill Droke lay on a slight rise above the Shoe Hill Lake. The droke was a general camping ground for shooting and trapping parties, and the remains of many camps were scattered through the wood. To the north lay Mount Sylvester, some seven miles away, with a fine open country between; to the south the view was bounded by a ridge about three miles away. A similar ridge lay about the same distance to the east, while to the west lay the country we had crossed the day before. The whole country was undulating and there were scattered clumps of wood affording nice shelter for stags. We could hunt in every direction and could not possibly have been in a better centre. The ground was hard and dry, and it was certainly the best walking in the island.

We started north about 9 a.m., and covered a lot of ground, walking continuously until 6 p.m., with an hour's rest for a midday meal. We saw four stags that day, and though two looked shootable, yet after a long tramp in each case we found the horns no good, which was a great disappointment, for we had worked really hard.

We also saw for the first time two bands of hinds, one of six with two small very young stags and one of four. We came on the spot where Millais had shot his forty-nine pointer and Steve pointed with pride to the bones still lying about, also to the scene of Captain Lumsden's thirty-seven pointer, but it was a poor satisfaction to me to know my predecessors on the ground had got such fine trophies if I could not find a shootable beast.

Millais, Captain Lumsden, Captain Legge and Mr. Littledale had all shot this country with Steve, who certainly knew every inch of it, but October is the month for the Shoe Hill Ridge, when the sport must be grand, for all the stags from the north as well as those from the wooded country all round come up to these barrens in the late autumn. The country was cut up with deep trails, showing where the stags passed on their annual migration south.

For pleasure I should choose the early season, up to October 1st; the weather is finer and some fishing is to be had, but for good heads the late season is certainly the best, for all the stags are out in the open during and after the rut. In the end of October the weather is sometimes fine, but sometimes very broken, and Steve told me that he had more than once hunted in heavy snow in that month.

On our return to camp everything was most comfortable--benches, tables, shelves in the tent, rests for the rifles; only the big stag was wanted to make the Shoe Hill Droke a hunter's earthly paradise.

On the morning of the 17th we struck east and crossed two ridges till we got to a valley between Shoe Hill Ridge and the hill on which was the Kesoquit Droke, where Millais had camped on his way up from the Long Harbour River.

Looking down into the valley, we saw a good stag as regards body and two smaller ones. The head was a pretty open one, but the middles and frontals were poor, so we left him alone. I picked up a single horn with eighteen good points close by. We saw two more stags a long way off and went after them, but the distance was much greater than I thought. On our way we saw another small stag come out of a droke and walk quietly up a slight rise, where he was joined by a still smaller one from the far side of the ridge. Neither had shootable heads. They both went in for what Steve called their "standing sleep," stuck their legs out and remained perfectly motionless with the head drooping till it almost touched the ground; occasionally they woke up with a start, but were soon sound asleep again. It was a most comical sight and lasted for about a quarter of an hour. I crawled up within about sixty yards without any difficulty and could easily have shot them both. The little stag woke up first, but it was not till we showed ourselves that the bigger stag moved away in a most dignified manner, giving two or three most beautiful chances before he went out of sight.

While Steve was boiling the kettle I went on to a little hillock to spy the ground, and saw the two stags we were first after, but again the heads were no good.

I heard a rustle behind me and, thinking it was Steve coming up to call me to dinner, turned round and saw a hind feeding beside me, not five yards away. She started when she saw me, but moved away quite quietly. While eating our midday meal two more hinds fed quietly up to within a few yards and passed by without showing any signs of fear. This country was certainly full of deer, but none of the right sort. When we stopped for dinner we were within one and a half miles of the Kesoquit Droke, which is only about four miles from the head-waters of the Long Harbour River. From a small hillock we could see the entire country and the hills over Long Harbour, while away to the east was the conical hill known as the "Tolt." The ground looked very much the same as far as the eye could reach and should be a grand hunting country in October. We could also see the waters of the Maelpeg Lake, about three miles away. Returning to camp, we saw a black fox in the distance, which made Steve's mouth water, as he said he could sell a good skin for two hundred and forty dollars.

Altogether the day had been a very interesting one. We had seen seven stags and a number of does, but unfortunately no good heads.

On the 18th the weather broke badly, the glass fell 7/10ths, a gale of wind and heavy driving rain made stalking impossible and kept us in camp all day. Towards evening the wind went round and the rain stopped, and then we saw a wonderful sunset, the heavy rain clouds drifting away across a golden red setting sun. We saw a stag on the sky-line about two miles away, but too late to go after him.

On the 19th the wind had come round to the north, and it was a bright, lovely morning. We took the ground to the north-west, working round by where we had seen the stag the previous evening. We covered a lot of ground and altogether stalked four separate stags, only to find, on getting up to them, that the heads were no good. We must have walked over fifteen miles, but in the bracing air of the barrens fatigue was unknown. We saw another black fox to-day a long way off, and Steve said he would be back trapping in three weeks and hoped to get the two black foxes. I picked up a single horn with twenty-two points, very short and thick. There were eight points on the top just like a frontal tine.

The morning of the 20th was very cold and grey, but we hoped it would clear up, so started away over the ridge to the south-west. On topping the ridge, we looked down on a great marshy plain with a few scattered drokes. Nothing was in sight, so we walked quietly on towards one of the drokes, from behind which suddenly burst out five hinds pursued by what looked like a good stag, who was grunting as he followed the hinds--the first rutting stag we had seen. They paid so little attention to us that they were almost on top of us before they saw us. Unfortunately, the head was poor, as he gave an easy shot. Almost immediately after two herds of hinds passed us, while in the distance two more stags were seen feeding about three miles away. We went on towards them, when the rain set in and we had to find shelter for lunch. There was no sign of the weather clearing and stalking was impossible in the heavy rain and mist, so we plodded wearily back to camp, which we reached after dark, wet to the skin. This valley was full of grouse; we saw seven good coveys and I shot three birds for the pot with the small rifle.

The rain continued all night, but stopped about 7 a.m. on the morning of the 21st.

We had come up to Shoe Hill Ridge on the 15th in heavy rain. It had rained on the 18th and again on the 20th, so three days out of six were spoiled. The whole country was now soaked with the rain, little rivulets had become torrents, and the marshes were knee deep in water. It seemed useless to remain on, as it meant my missing my steamer in New York, so we decided to pack up and get out.

Looking back, I think this was a mistake. I might have spent another week in this grand country and taken a later boat home. Some big stags might have come up from the woods. On the other hand, the weather was broken and even Steve was in favour of moving. All along he regretted that I had not come in for the October shooting, when, he said, I was bound to have got good heads. He was just as keen as I was and sorry to leave.

HOMEWARD BOUND