that method also fail, the hunter will set another trap
in the trail close to the first, in the hope that if one trap does not
catch the fox, the next will.

Another device is to break a bit of glass into tiny slivers which the
hunter mixes with grease and forms into little tablets that he leaves
on the snow. If the fox scents them, the chances are that he will
swallow each tablet at a single gulp. Presently he will feel a pain in
his stomach. At first this will cause him to leap about, but as his
sufferings will only increase, he will lie down for an hour or so.
When he finally rises to move away, he will feel the pain again. Once
more he will lie down, and the chances are that he will remain there
until found either dead or alive by the hunter.

FASHIONABLE FOOLS

If my readers, especially my women readers, should feel regret at the
great suffering resulting from fur-hunting, they should recall to mind
its chief contributory cause--those devotees of fashionable
civilization who mince around during the sweltering days of July and
August in furs. The mere thought of them once so filled with wrath a
former acting Prime Minister of Canada--Sir George Foster--that he lost
his usual flow of suave and classic oratory, and rearing up, roared out
in the House of Parliament: "Such women get my goat!"

Truly, there is much suffering in the wilderness, especially on account
of civilization; but if my readers will be patient enough to wade
through these few paragraphs of pain, they may later on find enough
novelty, beauty, and charm in the forest to reward them for reading on
to the end.

But to return to foxes--they are much given to playing dead. Once,
while travelling in Athabasca with Caspar Whitney, the noted American
writer on Sport and Travel, we came upon a black fox caught in a steel
trap. One of our dog-drivers stunned it and covered it with a mound of
snow in order to protect its pelt from other animals, so that when the
unknown trapper came along he would find his prize in good order.
Three days later, when I passed that way, the fox was sitting upon the
mound of snow, and was as alive as when first seen. This time,
however, my half-breed made sure by first hitting the fox on the snout
to stun it, and then gently pressing his moccasined foot over its heart
until it was dead--the proper way of killing small fur-bearing animals
without either injuring the fur or inflicting unnecessary pain.

Colin Campbe