ducks flew out of a little cove and saluted us;
the loons hallooed and laughed at our approach;
and the trout leaped from under our prow.
Breakfast done, we dressed in our hunting gear of
shirts and pantaloons of woollen—the only fabric
for the woods—got ready our rifles and ammunition,
and set out with one Paul and one Warren
for the woods. Warren was a handy little
black fellow, with all the amusing peculiarities
of the African race developed to the highest
degree; knowing that he would be not only
very useful but an inexhaustible fund of
merriment, I engaged that he should accompany
us in the capacity of cook. I cannot
describe him better than in the language of
Smith, who said that he was "three niggers
rolled into one." We reached the borders of a
pretty pond on the southern branch of the St.
Regis, and immediately put out the dogs we had
brought with us, but without driving any deer
into the water. Meanwhile, we had got ready
the boats Smith had sent over, and pushed out
into the pond. After waiting until the baying
of one of the dogs had died away in the distance,
and the other had returned to the shore, we
visited the shanty where we were to pass the
night. This shanty was a flimsy affair, hastily
constructed of boughs, and half covered with
bark; but as the day was very promising, we took
no pains to improve its condition. While the
rest of the party were fishing, Paul and I, in one
of the boats, took the inlet of the pond and
followed up the river to its source. Then, leaving
the boat we crossed a two-mile carrying-place to
the upper waters of the north branch of the
Saranac. Here we found a beautiful pond six
miles in length, called Rainbow, with a long
ridge of granite boulders, probably of glacial
formation, running along its side.

In this place, I once passed a night with
Paul, wrapped in our blankets, with the earth
for a mattress and the stars for a canopy,
after a weary and unsuccessful night hunt.
It was upon this very ridge, at a point only
a few rods in width, where it separates Rainbow
Pond from another beautiful sheet of water
called Clear Lake. I was awakened during the
night by a sound, wailing and prolonged—now
rising quick and sharp like the cry of a dog,
again sinking into a moan—which I had not
heard before, and which seemed to come from a
neighbouring hill. I awoke Paul to ask what it
was.

"Waal neow, them's wolves. Sure as you're
alive them 'ere's in full chase after a deer, and
they'll never leave him till they run him
down."

"But," said I, "suppose they should run
along this ridge?" thinking we should stand
about as good a chance of escape as a driver who
should take the railroad track for a highway.
But Smith had dropped asleep again immediately,
so I concluded that the danger could not be great,
and followed his example. After gazing my fill
at this lovely sheet of water, and watching a
deer in distant meadow, we returned to our
camp. On the way across a "mash" (Anglicè,
meadow) I stepped upon some floating moss on
the bank of a stream and immediately found
myself waist-deep in black mud, from which I was
extricated by the guide.

"Neow, that 'ere puts me in mind it was
just about here that I put Mr. Waddy in once.
That 'ere Mr. Waddy was the curousest man to
go a huntin' that ever you went anywheres.
Why, he used to dress himself in these woods
just as nice as if he was goin' to a ball! Used
to ile his hair and put on them little thin gloves,
and a stand-up dickey and a breast-pin, and a
swallow-tailed coat. If he got a spot on his
shirt-bosom he would go and change it. He
had the awfullest sight of traps ever you see,
and them had to be all carried. He couldn't
shoot at all unless everything sot just right.
He was a good hand at a mark, but he had the
ague so bad he never could hit a deer. I gave
him more shots in these parts than I ever gave
to any one man. He couldn't hit nothin'. Waal,
I'd got awful tired of him, so one morning, as I
was paddling him along this stream, I saw a
buck under them tamaracs.

"'Now, Mr. Smith,' says he, 'if you'll be
kind enough to let me step ashore, I think I
could hit that one; this boat shakes so I can't
shoot.'

"'I guess that air's the trouble, Mr. Waddy,'
says I; and I shoved in agin some of this
floatin' stuff. 'Look eout where you're a goin'
to,' says I. But he was lookin' hard at the deer,
and as soon as he stepped out o' the boat, he went
down, and that was the last I see on him for as
much as a minute. More 'n half an acre of the
stuff shook and swashed round, and this 'ere
black mud bubbled up, and I thought I'd lost
Mr. Waddy. Pretty soon I see his head and
pulled him into the boat.

"'Oh, Mr. Smith, this is an awful piece of
business! This is positively frightful! Take me
home,' says he.

"Waal, that air Mr. Waddy, he was the
curousest crittur to hunt ever you see. He had
a great long knife shaped like a sword, with a
red leather scabbard all covered over with carving
and silver, and he used to lug that reound
with him. He couldn't never kill nothin', and
he never drawed it but once as I remember.
I paddled him one day close up to a little fahn,
and he fired and wounded him so that he set
right down on his hind-quarters.

"'Neow,' says I, 'Mr. Waddy, 's a chance
for you to blood that 'ere handsome knife o'
yourn. Get out and catch him by the ears and
cut his throat.'

"Waal, he went at that fahn just as though he
was afeered on him, and every time he'd offer to
lay a hold on him that fahn 'd dodge away
his head, and then Mr. Waddy he'd go at him
agin. By-and-by, he'd got hold, and he drawed
that big knife, and was just a puttin' it to his
throat, when the little crittur opened his mouth
and baaed right out at him.

"'Oh! Mr. Smith,' says he, letting go, with
a kind o' plaintive voice, as though he was sick
to his stomach, 'did you hear that melancholy