"What a night!" exclaimed Christie. "Will you ever forget it, Colonel? How the wolves howled! A whole pack of them scented us. Once or twice the moon shone out, revealing their gaunt, shadowy forms and flashing eyes. It was enough to make one's hair stand on end. So bitter and penetrating was the night wind that it had a paralyzing effect upon us both. Before morning came we had decided upon a plan. We knew the wolves would give us no trouble, for they always disappear with daylight, so we arranged to have the Colonel engage the attention of the moose while I should attempt to secure the gun, which still lay at the foot of the beech tree; and that I should manoeuvre with the moose while the Colonel approached as near as possible and flung to me the ammunition. The scheme worked admirably. I was able, after several unsuccessful attempts, for the powder was not quite dry, to send a bullet through his heart." After a hearty meal Christie undertook to guide Meyers and Joe to the spot where the body of the moose lay, for they were detailed to guard it from the wolves and to bring it down the creek in a canoe the next morning. Fortune seemed to turn in favor of the hunters, for a young fawn fell a victim to a well-directed bullet from Lord Dalhousie's gun next morning, and another was secured by the Chief. Moose-hunting was not the only form of entertainment provided for the party. The old country visitors took a keen delight in drawing from the men stories of their adventures in the new world, which were mainly true, and were given in their own dialect. One evening, as the shadows of darkness were creeping on and all were gathered round the camp-fire, the Chief said: "Come, now, Joe, we want you to tell the gentlemen a story." Seated on a log, dangling his legs, was the diminutive Frenchman, with coarse gray homespun shirt and knitted tuque drawn down to his ears, which stuck out almost at right angles from the head. He glanced at the Governor, and then at the red-coated officers, with evident dread and apprehension. "Now, Leclaire," said the Chief, "don't be afraid. Tell your bear story." Slowly removing his tuque, "Little Joe," as he was familiarly called, began to scratch his head thoughtfully as if to rake up reminiscences. Suddenly his sickly, pock-pitted face lighted up and his black eyes indicated that he had succeeded in scratching up something to tell about. "Wan tam," he said, "when we work on de Got-no, I cut de whood, me, pour mak le souper, an' when I go back le shaintee--sacré bleu!--wan beeg bear she am got her head in de soup-pot. I trow down de whood an' run, me, for shure, lak wan wile moose. De bear she am skeart, an' she run, too. Le pot she steek on, too, lac wan blak hat. Dunno, me, how she fine le reever, but she run, and she sweem wit dat black pot till she reach the odder shore. Me an' de boss we tak le canot an' de gun pour chasser le bear an' we fine de pot, but we no see de bear."