the verge of the fall, on a rock in the centre of the river, stood the wounded Cariboo. The water around him was fearfully rapid—one false step would carry him under the ice, and down the fall. On the bank stood the dog: my first care was to secure him, as he appeared ready every instant to make a spring that must have been fatal. The Cariboo had chosen a most admirable place of retreat; nothing living could approach him with safety. On each side the perpendicular cliffs towered many feet over his head—before him the roaring torrent, and behind the ice-bound cataract. After feasting my eyes on this wild and romantic scene, I approached as near the fall as the rugged cliff would permit. The Cariboo saw me, and with glaring eye-balls he shook his branching antlers in impotent rage, presenting to my rifle his broad front, as in defiance. I am not ashamed to say I was happy when I glanced at the rapid water and rugged cliff between me and my devoted prey; for I have no doubt, had it been in his power he would have soon shortened the distance between us—and after what I had so lately witnessed, I had no very great desire (seeing I was not as yet a perfect harlequin on snow-shoes,) to play the same game over again with my friend on the rock. To put an end to his wishes and my fears, I presented. My ball took effect directly in his brain, and he quietly dropped into the stream, leaving me master of the _field_. The next moment I could see, through the transparent ice, his glossy hide gliding down the cascade.” Amiable reader, thus it was that “Meadows” slew his first Cariboo; and thus, pray for me, that I may kill mine, this very month. If I do, believe me, I will try to tell you how I did it, as well—better I may not tell you—as Meadows. And so, until next month, fare you well! * * * * * A THOUGHT OF THE FUTURE. Do we not _all_, sometimes, desire to look into the future, but is it not _well_ for us, that it is _hidden from our view_? S. D. S. Couldst thou have looked beyond the mist that veiled The unseen Future from thy longing sight, Would not thy courage in that hour have failed, To see the shadows of Death’s coming night? Wouldst thou have grieved that nevermore for thee Would the clear waters gush, the sweet flowers bloom? That more than one fond heart would homeless be, When thou wert gone in silence to the tomb? What didst _dream_ of? when the rose-lip smiled, And bade thee welcome to the social hearth, Where voices low and sweet the hours beguiled— Were they not dear, those fireside hours of mirth? What didst thou hope for? with thy kindling eye, And thoughtful brow, that wore the laurels well; As thou wert climbing to the temple high, Not hearing on the winds the passing knell!