A Few Weeks Since, A Habitant With A Loaded Sleigh Passed Our Gate;
On The Top Of His Load Was Visible A Noble Pair Of Antlers.
"Qui a tue -
ces cariboo?" we asked.
Honest John Baptiste replied, "Le Colonel Rhodes,
Monsieur." Then followed a second - then a third. Same question asked, to
which for reply - "Le Colonel Rhodes, Monsieur." Then another sleigh load
of cariboo, in all twelve Cariboo, two sleighs of hare, grouse and
ptarmigan, then a man carrying a dead carcajou, then in the distance,
the soldier-like phiz of the Nimrod himself, nimbly following on foot the
cavalcade. This was too much, we stopped and threatened the Colonel to
apply to Parliament for an Act to protect the game of Canada against his
unerring rifle. Were we not fully aware of the gratifying fact, that,
under recent legislative enactment, the fish and game of Canada have much
increased, we might be inclined to fancy that the Colonel will never rest
until he has bagged the last moose, the last cariboo in the country.
Benmore nestles cosily in a pine grove on the banks of the great river,
the type of an English Country gentleman's homestead. In front of the
house, a spacious piazza, from which you can watch the river craft; in the
vast surrounding meadows, a goodly array of fat Durhams and Ayrshires, in
the farm-yard, short-legged Berkshires squeaking merrily in the distance,
rosy-cheeked English boys romping on the lawn, surrounded by pointers and
setters:
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