His fare possesses at least two sterling merits. It is substantial in quality and unlimited in quantity. He enjoys it most when the day’s work is over, and, no less weary than hungry, he trudges home to the shanty. There he finds the warm welcome of a steaming supper awaiting him. Drawn up about the blazing fire he sees a pot of excellent pea-soup, a boiler of strong tea, a big pan full of fat pork fried and floating in gravy, another pan containing slices of cold boiled pork, huge loaves of bread baked in great iron pots buried deep in the ashes of the "camboose"—and better than city baker ever made—and a pile of bright tin basins. Picking up two of the basins, he fills one with soup and the other with tea. Helping himself to a generous slice of the hot bread, he makes use of it as a plate for a slice of the pork. Then he retires to the edge of his bunk, and with the aid of his clasp-knife discusses this solid if not varied repast. There is not much change in the bill of fare all winter. Occasionally, perhaps, if the roads permit, fresh beef "on foot" will be sent up from the depot, and the lumbermen may enjoy the luxury of steaks and roasts. Quite often, too, a bit of game will fall in their way while they are working in the woods. Great is the rejoicing when François or Alec succeeds in bringing down a fat deer. Bear-steak, too, is not unknown. The bear is trapped in a "dead fall," or small hut above the door of which a heavy log is hung in such a way that it drops with crushing force upon the bear pushing in to get at the bait. Sometimes the shantymen do a little trapping on their own account. One of them, who wished to obtain a fine bear-skin, paid dearly for his prize. He had set his steel spring trap, and returning after an interval, found that it had disappeared. The marks in the snow made tracking easy; and hurrying along, he presently reached a great log over which the trap had evidently been dragged. His haste made him careless, and springing across the broad trunk without stopping to reconnoitre, he threw himself right into the arms of the bear. The animal, weary of dragging the heavy trap, was resting on the other side. The hunted creature was furious with pain. The shanty-man’s only weapon was his sheath-knife, which he drew and stabbed the bear again and again in the breast. But stab as he might he could not loose the brute’s fatal grasp. Next day his comrades, anxiously following up his trail, found him dead, with the dead bear’s paws still holding him fast.