Little chipmunks scuttled out from their holes to the packs, which lay in a heap on the ground, and then scuttled madly back again.

A couple of drab-colored whisky-jacks, with bold mien and fearless bright eyes, hopped and fluttered round, picking up the scraps, and uttering an extraordinary variety of notes, mostly discordant; so tame were they that one of them lit on my outstretched arm as I half dozed, basking in the sunshine.
When the shadows began to lengthen, I shouldered my rifle and plunged into the woods.

At first my route lay along a mountain side; then for half a mile over a windfall, the dead timber piled about in crazy confusion.

After that I went up the bottom of a valley by a little brook, the ground being carpeted with a sponge of soaked moss.

At the head of this brook was a pond covered with water-lilies; and a scramble through a rocky pass took me into a high, wet valley, where the thick growth of spruce was broken by occasional strips of meadow.