Each year, of course, the floods
undercut the banks, and more trees fall, to become at last the
flotsam of the shore a thousand miles away.
There is something sad about these stately trees, densely packed,
all a-row, unflinching, hopelessly awaiting the onset of the
inexorable, invincible river. One group, somewhat isolated and
formal, was a forest life parallel to Lady Butler's famous "Roll
Call of the Grenadiers."
At night we reached the Indian village of Pelican Portage, and
landed by climbing over huge blocks of ice that were piled along
the shore. The adult male inhabitants came down to our camp, so
that the village was deserted, except for the children and a few
women.
As I walked down the crooked trail along which straggle the cabins,
I saw something white in a tree at the far end. Supposing it to be
a White-rabbit in a snare, I went near and found, to my surprise,
first that it was a dead house-cat, a rare species here; second,
under it, eyeing it and me alternately, was a hungry-looking Lynx.
I had a camera, for it was near sundown, and in the woods, so I
went back to the boat and returned with a gun. There was the Lynx
still prowling, but now farther from the village.
