I took my station at my favorite stand, a runway which reaches the lake where a deep, narrow bay collected the waters before they were discharged into the river which flowed into the St. Lawrence.

One side of this bay was nearly separated from the lake by a long, sharp point of land, and near the bay’s farther shore was a little island, a green, bushy spot amid the blue waters.

The bay was a favorite place for the pursued deer to take to the water in their endeavor to baffle the hounds following their tracks, and from my station on the long point I could watch and command the entire bay.

Before daybreak Rufe had led the hounds into the wood, and it was not much later when I pushed my light boat against the point, and sprang ashore.

It was a still, crisp, November morning, and the rising sun had not yet melted the hoar-frost from the alder bushes that grew at the water’s edge.

Gauzy wisps of mist hovered by the shores, and shrouded the evergreens on the little island.  The snow-sprinkled forest looked white and weird through the veils of mist.

Small flocks of ducks threaded their way across the foggy surface of the bay, going from their resting-places on the river to feed among the wild rice marshes of the lake.

I built a small fire to deaden the morning chill, and amused myself by aiming my shotgun at the passing ducks.

The birds, in their low, drowsy flight, offered beautiful wing-shots, and as I glanced along the polished gun-barrels, I imagined the sharp explosion followed by the heavy fall of fat mallards into the water.

But I fired in imagination only, for it would be a grave breach of deer-hunting etiquette to discharge a gun at anything less important than the antlered game.

The sun rose higher, the mists disappeared and flying ducks no longer relieved the monotony of my watch.  The forest was seen more distinctly and grew less weird and interesting.

I was beginning to wish for a book to while away the long hours which would elapse before the strict rules of custom would permit me to return to the shanty, when I saw a deer jump from the bushes which bordered the shores of the bay nearest the island.

I knew the black hound’s peculiarities, and was prepared for the appearance of a deer, unushered by the baying of hounds, but I had not expected the game to come so quickly, for Rufe had hardly had time to start the dogs.

Hidden in the bushes of the point, I watched the deer as it stood upon the shore, and glanced its keen eyes around.

The bay seemed devoid of enemies, and the animal plunged into the water and swam toward the island.

As yet I did not dare to move, for the deer was not more than forty rods distant, and a glimpse of me would send it hurrying back to the shore.

[Illustration:  “THE DOG DID NOT RELAX ITS HOLD, AND THE COMBATANTS SEEMED BOUND TOGETHER.”]