In P.M.  George shot three partridges which jumped up before us in a swamp.  Killed them with my pistol.  Made us very happy.  Ate one for supper, OH! how good.  In spite of my weakness I was happy to-night.  I remember a similar happiness once after I went to New York.  I got caught in rain, had no car fare, got soaked, spent last 10 cents for rolls and crullers, then crawled into bed to get dry and eat, not knowing where the next meal would come from.  Talk of home.  George not thinking now of eating of recent years, but just the things his mother used to make for him as a child.  Same way with Wallace and me, save that I think of what M. and I have eaten that she made.

Sunday, October 18th.—­Alone in camp—­junction of Nascaupee and some other stream—­estimated (overestimated I hope) distance above head of Grand Lake, 33 miles.  For two days past we have travelled down our old trail with light packs.  We left a lot of flour wet—­ about 11 miles below here, 12 miles (approximately) below that about a pound of milk powder, 4 miles below that about 4 pounds of lard.  We counted on all these to help us out in our effort to reach the head of Grand Lake where we hoped to find Skipper Tom Blake’s trapping camp and cache.  On Thursday as stated, I busted.  Friday and Saturday it was the same.  I saw it was probably useless for me to try to go farther with the boys, so we counselled last night, and decided they should take merely half a blanket each, socks, etc., some tea, tea pail, cups, and the pistols, and go on.  They will try to reach the flour to-morrow.  Then Wallace will bring a little and come back to me.  George will go on to the milk and lard and to Skipper Blake if he can, and send or lead help to us.  I want to say here that they are two of the very best, bravest, and grandest men I ever knew, and if I die it will not be because they did not put forth their best efforts.  Our past two days have been trying ones.  I have not written my diary because so very weak.  Day before yesterday we caught sight of a caribou, but it was on our lee, and, winding us, got away before a shot could be fired.

Yesterday at an old camp, we found the end we had cut from a flour bag.  It had a bit of flour sticking to it.  We boiled it with our old caribou bones and it thickened the broth a little.  We also found a can of mustard we had thrown away.  I sat and held it in my hand a long time, thinking how it came from Congers and our home, and what a happy home it was.  Then I took a bite of it and it was very good.  We mixed some in our bone broth and it seemed to stimulate us.  We had a bit of caribou skin in the same pot.  It swelled thick and was very good.  Last night I fell asleep while the boys were reading to me.  This morning I was very, very sleepy.  After the boys left—­they left me tea, the caribou bones, and another end of flour sack found here, a rawhide caribou moccasin, and some yeast cakes—­I drank a cup of strong