The Canadian wolf is not nearly so ferocious as the European animal, nor I believe quite so large.  I have heard of very few well-authenticated accounts of persons having been destroyed by these creatures, though I must say I should not like again to be in their vicinity in a dark night, as more than once I have been.  I was returning from Whitby after dark, and had just entered the woods, through which my path lay for a full mile and a half.  The night being dark, and the road not particularly good, I gave Prince the rein, and allowed him to choose his own pace.  Presently, I thought I heard a pattering on the leaves, like the tread of animals, at which sound my horse pricked up his ears, snorted, and shied nearly across the road, so suddenly that I was nearly thrown out of the saddle.  Well for me was it, however, that I kept my seat; for instantly such an infernal howling was raised all round me as made my heart leap up to my mouth, and I must candidly own I felt horribly afraid I should fall into the clutches of devouring wolves.  My good steed Prince, I fancy, was as scared as myself, for he galloped off, followed by the pack, who fairly made the woods ring with their unearthly yells.  They did not chase us far, and ceased howling, having seemingly lost the scent; but in a few minutes a fresh burst in the direction of the lake-shore plainly told me they had regained it, and were on the track of a deer, which most probably had crossed the road at the time when I first heard their chorus.  It is not very easy to describe one’s feelings on such occasions.

There is something particularly appalling in the full cry of a pack of wolves, especially when alone in the woods, and at night.  I have frequently heard them at such times, when camped out on hunting expeditions.  However, we mustered strong and were well armed, so we cared little for them or their yells.

The only instance of any one being killed by wolves, to which I can speak with certainty, occurred a few years back in the township of Douro.  A young lad of the name of M’Ewen was sent by his father to a shoemaker, one George Disney, for his shoes.  The distance was not more than a mile by a path through the woods, and the boy was well acquainted with the road.  It appears, he went to Disney’s, and waited for his shoes till nearly dark, when he started for home.  But nothing more was ever heard or seen of him till the thaw in the spring, although diligent search was made at the time.  Owing to a snow-storm which fell the same night, he was lost.  It was impossible to follow the boy’s tracks, and as a pack of wolves had been heard the same night in the immediate neighbourhood, no doubt was entertained that he had been attacked and eaten by these ravenous monsters.  Some bones and pieces of clothing, supposed to have belonged to the unfortunate youth, were the only memorials found of him.

I have heard the old settlers say, that very few instances have occurred like this in their recollection, though from the many persons lost in the woods and never again discovered, it is more than probable that some of them, when weakened by fatigue and hunger and no longer able to defend themselves, may have fallen victims to their insatiable maws.