he encountered big game, all he had to do was to ram down a ball, slip on a cap, and then he was ready to fire at a moose or a bear.

After the usual affectionate good-bye, and the waving of farewell as we moved in single file into the denser forest, we followed a game trail that wound in and out among the trees and rocks always along the line of least resistance and for a while headed westward through the valley of Muskrat Creek. Oo-koohoo led the way and, as he walked along, he would occasionally turn and point at the trail and whisper:

"My white son, see, a moose passed two days ago. That's fox-this morning," and when we were overlooking the stream, he remarked: "This is a good place for muskrats, but I'll come for them by canoe.'

The principal object of the trip was to set fox and marten traps. Hilly timberland of spruce or pine without much brushwood is the most likely place for martens; and in fairly open country foxes may be found. The favorite haunt of beavers, otters, fishers, minks, and muskrats is a marshy region containing little lakes and streams; while for lynxes, a willowy valley interspersed with poplars is the usual resort.

Co

SETTING TRAPS

OMING to an open space along the creek, the wise old Owl concluded from the fox signs he had already seen, and from the condition of the soil on a cut bank, that it was a desirable place in which to set a steel-trap for foxes. Laying aside his kit, he put on his trapping mits, to prevent any trace of man smell being left about the trap, and with the aid of his trowel he dug into the bank a horizontal hole about two feet deep and about a foot in diameter. He wedged the chain-ring

the hole the head of a duck that Ne-geek had shot for the purpose, Oo-koo-hoo scattered a few feathers about. Some of these, as well as the pan of the trap, had been previously daubed with a stinking concoction called "fox bait."

Most every hunter has a regular system for setting his traps so that he may know exactly where and how each trap is placed. Usually he sets it east and west, then cutting a notch on a branch-about a foot from the butt-he measures that distance from the trap, and thrusts the branch into the snow in an upright position, as though it were growing naturally. When the hunter is going his rounds, at the sight of the branch he will remember where and how his trap is set, and can read all the signs without going too near. The object of laying the sheet of birch-bark over the trap is that when any part of the bark is touched the trap may go off; besides it forms a hollow space beneath, and thus allows the animal's foot to sink deeper into the trap, to be caught further up, and to be held more securely.

The foregoing is the usual way of setting a fox trap, yet the Wood Crees and the Swampy Crees set their fox traps on mounds of snow about the size of muskrat houses. For that purpose they bank the snow into a mound about eighteen inches high, bury the drag-pole at the bottom, set the trap exactly in the crest of the mound, and covering up all traces of trap and chain with powdered snow, sprinkle food bait and mixed bait around the bottom of the mound. The approaching fox, catching scent of the mixed bait, follows it up and then eats some of the food-bait, which presently gives him the desire to go and sit upon the mound-which is the habit of foxes in such a condition-and thus he is caught.

А

WOLVES AND FOXES

CURIOUS thing once happened to a

to be used as a clog or drag-anchor in case the fox tried to make away with the trap. The pole was then buried at one side of the hole. Digging a trench from the pole to the back of the hole, he carefully set the trap, laid it in the trench near the back of the hole, so that it rested about half an inch below the surface of the surrounding earth, covered it with thin layers of birch bark (sewed together with watap-thin spruce roots) then, sifting earth over it, covered all signs of both trap and chain, and finally, with a crane's wing, brushed the sand into natural form. Placing at the back of

One day he found a wolf caught in one of his traps and foolishly allowed his hunting-dog to rush at it. It leaped about so furiously that it broke the trap chain, and ran out upon the lake, too far for the hunter's gun. In pursuit of the wolf, the dog drew too near and was seized and overpowered by the wolf. In order to save his dog the hunter rushed out upon the lake; and when within fair range, dropped upon one knee and fired. Unluckily the ball struck the trap, smashed it, and set the wolf free; and all the hunter got for his pains was a

dead dog and a broken trap-while the wolf went scot-free.

But to illustrate how stupid the white fox of the Arctic coast is in comparison with the colored fox of the forest, the following story is worth repeating. It happened near Fort Churchill on the northwest coast of Hudson's Bay. The trader at the post had given a certain Eskimo a spoon-bait, or spoon-hook, the first he had ever seen; and as he thought it a very wonderful thing, he always carried it about with him. The next fall, while going along the coast, he saw a pack of white foxes approaching and having with him neither a trap nor a gun, he thought of his spoon hook. Tearing a rag off his shirt, he rubbed on it some porpoise oil which he was carrying in a bladder, fastened the rag about the hook, laid it on a log directly in the path of the approaching foxes, and going to the end of the line lay down out of sight to watch what would happen. When the foxes drew near, one of them seized the bait, and the Eskimo, jerking the line, caught the fox by the tongue. In that way the native caught six foxes before he returned to the post; but then, as every one in the far north knows, white foxes are proverbially stupid creatures.

Ο

DEAD FOXES AND LIVE ONES

NCE, while traveling in Athabasca with Caspar Whitney, the noted American writer on sport and travel, we came upon a black fox caught in a steel trap. One of our dog-drivers stunned it and covered it with a mound of snow in order to protect its pelt from other animals, so that when the unknown trapper came along he would find his prize in good order. Three days later when I passed that way, the fox was sitting upon the mound of snow, and was as alive as when first seen. This time, however, my half-breed made sure by first hitting the fox on the snout to stun it, and then gently pressing his moccasined foot over its heart until it was dead-the proper way of killing small fur-bearing animals, without either injuring the fur or inflicting unnecessary pain.

Colin Campbell, a half-breed at York Factory, once had a different experience. He had been on a visit to an Indian Camp with his dogtrain and, on his way back, found a white fox in one of his traps. He stunned it in the usual way and pressed his foot over its heart; and when he thought it was dead, placed it inside his sled wrapper and drove home. On arriving at the Fort he unhitched his sled from the dogs,

and leaving them harnessed, pulled his sled, still containing its load, into the trading room, where, upon opening the wrapper to remove the load, the fox leaped out and, as the door was closed, bolted in fright straight through the window, carrying the glass with it, and escaped before the dogs could be released from their harness.

CAUGHT IN HIS OWN SNARE

NARES, steel traps, and deadfalls that are set for large game are dangerous even for man to approach carelessly, and sometimes even the trapper himself has the misfortune to be caught in the very trap he has set for some other animal. Early one winter-in fact, just after the first heavy snowfall, and while some bears were still roaming about, before turning in for their long winter sleep-an Indian hunter -I have forgotten his name-assisted by his son, had just set a powerful snare for bears. Soon after starting for home, the hunter, discovering that he had left his pipe by the trap, told his son to go on to camp, and he would return to recover his treasure. On arriving at the snare, he saw his pipe lying just beyond his reach at the back of the loop, but instead of walking round the brush fence and picking it up from behind, as he should have done, he foolishly put his leg through the snare in order to reach and dislodge his pipe. By some evil chance his foot caught upon the loop, and instantly he was violently jerked, heels over head, into the air, and there hung head downward struggling for his life. He had made the tossing-pole from a strong tree, up which his son had climbed with a line and by their combined weight they had forced the tree-top over and down until they could seize it by setting the snare. The tossing-pole, when the snare went off, sprung up with such force that it not only dislocated the hunter's right leg at the knee, but it threw his knife out of its sheath, and, consequently, he had no means by which he could cut the line, nor could he unfasten it or even climb up-for he was hanging clear of the tree. Presently, however, he began to bleed from the nose and ears; and in his violent effort to struggle free, he noticed that he was swinging from side to side; then it dawned upon him that if he could only increase the radius of his swing he might manage to reach and seize hold of the tree, climb up to slacken the line, unfasten the snare, and set himself free. This, after much violent effort, he finally

accomplished; but even when he reached the ground, everything seemed utterly hopeless, for on account of his dislocated leg, he could not walk. So there he lay all night long. During twilight, as fate ordained, the wounded man had a visitor; it was a bear, and no doubt the very bear for which he had set his snare. But the bear, in approaching, did not notice the man until it was almost on top of him, and then it became so frightened that it tore up into a neighboring tree and there remained for hours. By midnight, however, it came down, and then it was the suffering hunter's turn to become alarmed, for the big brute passed very close to him before it finally walked away. A little after sunrise the hunter's son arrived, but not being able to carry his father, and fearing lest the bear might return before he could secure help, he decided to leave his father there while he went in search of the bear. Tracking it, he soon came upon it and shot it dead. Back he hastened to camp and, with his mother, returned with a sled and hauled the wounded man home.

TH

DE PREDATIONS OF A WOLVERINE

HIS HAPPENED years ago when an old Dog-rib Indian, called Meguir, was living and hunting in the vicinity of Fort Rae on Great Slave Lake. The Dog-rib and his family of five had been hunting Barren Ground caribou, and after killing, skinning, and cutting up a number of deer, had built a stage upon which they placed the venison. Moving on and encountering another herd of caribou, they killed again, and cutting up the game, stored it this time in a log cache. Again setting out on the hunt-for they were laying in their supply of deer-meat for the winterthey again met with success; but as it was in a district devoid of trees, they simply covered the meat with brush; and while Meguir and his wife set off to haul the first lot of meat to camp, the three grandchildren set to work to haul in the last. On continuing their work the next day the children brought in word that a wolverine, or carcajou, had visited the log cache; so Meguir set off at once to investigate the story.

When he arrived, he found the cache torn asunder, and the meat gone. Wolverine tracks were plentiful and mottled the snow in many directions, but on circling, Meguir found a trail that led away, and on following it up, he came upon a quarter of a deer. He circled

again, trailed another track, found more meat, and after a few hours' work he had recovered most of the venison; but on smelling it, he found that the wolverine, in its usual loathsome way, had defiled the meat. Then, on going to his stage, Meguir found that it too had been visited by the wolverine, as the stage had been torn down and the meat defiled. Indignant at the outrage, the old Dog-rib determined to hunt the carcajou and destroy it. But before doing so, he made sure that all his deer meat was hauled to camp and safely stored upon the stages before his lodge. That night, however, his old wife woke up with a start and hearing the dogs growling, looked out, and discovered a strange animal scrambling down from one of the stages. At once she screamed to her old man to get his gun as fast as the Master of Life would let him, as the wolverine was robbing them again.

Half-awake, and that half all excitement, the old man rushed out into the snow with his muzzle-loading flint-lock, and let drive. Instantly one of his dogs fell over. Roaring with rage the old Indian re-loaded with all speed,and catching another glimpse of the wolverine in the faint light of the aurora borealis, let drive again; but as ill-luck would have it, the gun went off just as another of his dogs made a gallant charge, and once more a dog fell dead—and the wolverine got away!

Nothing would now do but that the old man must seek his revenge at the earliest possible moment, so when dawn broke, he was already following the trail of the malicious raider. All day he trailed it through the snow, and just before dusk the tracks told him that he was very near his quarry; but rather than run the risk of firing in a poor light, he decided not to despatch the brute until daylight came.

THE WOLVERINE AND THE SNOW-SHOES

CCORDING to the northern custom, when he camped that night he stood his gun and snow-shoes in the snow far enough away to prevent their being affected by the heat of the fire. In the morning his snowshoes were gone. Tracks, however, showed that the wolverine had taken them. Again the old man trailed the thief; but without snowshoes, the going was extra hard, and it was afternoon before he stumbled upon one of his snowshoes lying in the snow, and quite near his former camp, as the "Great Mischief Maker" had simply made a big circuit and come back

again. But of what use was one snow-shoe? So the old hunter continued his search and late that day found the other damaged beyond repair.

That night, filled with rage and despondency, he returned to his old camp, and as usual placed his gun upright in the snow away from the heat of the fire. In the morning it was gone. New tracks marked the snow and showed where the carcajou had dragged it away. Several hours later the old man found it with its case torn to ribbons, the butt gnawed, and the trigger broken.

Tired, hungry, dejected, and enraged, old Meguir sought his last night's camp to make a fire and rest awhile; but when he got there he found he had lost his fire bag containing his flint and steel-his wherewithal for making fire. Again he went in search, but fresh falling snow had so obliterated the trail and so hindered his progress, that it was late before he recovered his treasure, and regained his dead fireplace. Yet still the wolverine was at large.

But instead of thinking of wreaking his rage upon the wolverine, the poor old Indian was so completely intimidated by the wily brute, so discouraged and so despondent, that he imagined that the whole transaction was the work of some evil spirit. As a result, he not only gave up hunting the wolverine, but also he gave up hunting altogether, and he and his family would have starved had not friends come to their rescue and rendered them assistance until his grandsons were old enough to take charge.

YEA

BEAR CUBS AND FISH

EARS ago, near Fort Pelly, on the Assiniboine River, an old Indian killed a she-bear that was followed by two cubs. Though he skinned and cut up the carcass of the mother, he did not touch the whimpering babes, and on going to camp, he sent his wife out with a horse to bring in the meat. When the woman arrived at the spot, she found the two cubs cuddled up against the dressed meat of their mother, and crying as if their poor hearts would break. Their affectionate be

havior so touched the motherly heart of the old Indian woman, that, after loading the meat aboard the travois a framework of poles stretched out behind the horse-she picked up the sobbing children and, wrapping them in a blanket to keep them from falling off the travois, bestrode her horse, and brought them whimpering into camp.

For some time she kept them tethered beside her lodge where she took good care of them, but when they grew larger and seemed well behaved, she released them and allowed them to run and play with the dogs around camp. In the fall, it was her habit to take a hand-net and go down to the river to fish. Standing upon a rock and every once in a while casting in her net, she would land a fish on the bank. For several days the cubs watched her with interest, and then one day, it seems, they decided they ought to try and help their fostermother; so wading in on their hind legs till the water covered their little round tummies, they would stand perfectly still until a fish would swim near. Then they would make a violent lunge for it, and striking lightning-like blows with their paws, they, too, would land a fish upon the bank. Over and over they repeated the manœuvre, with evident excitement and pleasure. At last, every time the old woman picked up her net to go fishing, these two went along and helped her with her work. So fond of the sport did they become that, presently, they didn't even wait for her to accompany them, but scurried down to the river by themselves and would often have a day's fishing caught and ready for her, before she had put in her appearance.

But a few months later, when the cubs had grown still larger and stronger, they became so boisterous and mischievous that they not only handled the dogs too roughly, but also when the Old Indian and his wife left camp at any time, they went on the rampage: chasing the dogs about, ransacking the larder, turning the camp topsy-turvy, and scattering everything in confusion. So the old couple decided that it was now high time to put their skins upon the skin-stretcher in readiness to sell to the furtrader.

W

E ARE in a brownish-tinted tent-whether we assume we are in Chillicothe, Cuyahoga Falls, Mt. Victory, or any of the remaining 137 places on the circuit. This tent, with all its appurtenances, posters, folding chairs, and platform properties-except the piano furnished by a local dealer and adequately so advertised-is a transient affair, come but a short time ago and due to fold and depart a few hours hence. Yet it will all come again. And through the apparent transience of it all there is a pervading air of permanence. The chairs, at least, are firmly held, for in every one of them sits a man or a woman or a child. Around the fringes, leaning on or holding to tent poles and ropes, or standing grouped at the back of the main aisle, there are more people. They are all intently listening. They are all facing a platform which, as it happens, is likewise firmly held down. For there appears, besides the locally loaned piano, a frail speaker's table and a pitcher of water and a glass, the figure of Irvin S. Cobb, designated, if by no other means, by the programme in our hands as the "World's Greatest War Reporter." The programme shows him scheduled to speak this night in this place on "My Recent Experiences on the Fighting Front in France and Flanders."

Cobb is talking. The audience listens in rapt attention. They laughed uproariously a while ago when he told the story of the Negro woman who collected $500 insurance for the death of her husband and who was asked by a friend, "What you-alls gwine t'do now's you've had all dis❞—the crowd waited as Cobb paused just an instant for the greater dramatic effect— "luck?" But they are silent now. He is telling them about something they have never heard before. Yes, they may have read about some of it; in fact, they may have read what

war.

the speaker himself has written. Yet to hear him in person, this man who has actually made contact with that horrible conflict over in Europe several thousand miles away, is to listen to the equivalent of something new despite the fulsome daily newspaper accounts of the He is telling them what he saw in Belgium, of his observations in Germany behind the lines, of the plight of France, of England's gigantic efforts, and finally of our own country's decision to make the issue ours as well. Famed as a writer, Cobb has become what a Chautauqua director once described a successful platform speaker as being-a talking publicist.

Presently the speaker finishes, and prolonged applause follows. But he remains on the platform and then from various quarters of the crowd questions are asked. A discussion ensues. More questions are asked and the speaker explains anew or in greater detail certain of the points touched upon in the lecture but raised now by certain of his hearers who want to know more about the world cataclysm which this man has seen, and which they thus far have only read about. When the questioning ends and the evening session closes, another very definite and very concise block of valuable information will have been placed at the disposal of this community for its general use and guidance in future appreciation of the truth of the world struggle.

Outside the humming of automobile motors, seemingly restless to be on the road home, for the hour is late, encroaches upon the buzz of conversation within the now thoroughly animated tent. But the motors' invitation for the most part goes unheeded. There is a group around the platform talking to the evening's speaker. There are concentrations of people here and there throughout the sputteringly lighted tent. All are in earnest, some in rather heated conversation. This war is something