ancholy Labrador, lies an immense field of
exploration. More picturesque in its features than the upper or western
province, this offshoot of old France offers peculiar attractions to
persons who would escape, for a while, from the turmoils and cares of
the too-busy world. On the south side of the river, within thirty or
forty miles of the picturesque fortress of Quebec, moose are still
plentiful, and during the winter months their venison is always to be
found in the markets of the old town. The caribou haunts the
wildernesses of timbered mountains that rise away back from the north
shore. Parties of hardy sportsmen set out every winter from Quebec for
the chase of these noble deer. It is only upon snow-shoes, the
_raquettes_ of the French Canadians, that this sport can be pursued; the
snow generally lying to the depth of three or four feet on the level in
the woods. The practice of walking upon these contrivances is general
throughout Lower Canada. On fine afternoons, when the snow is well
packed, hundreds of young men, and not unfrequently young ladies, may be
seen scudding across the country, in every direction, outside the walls
of Quebec. The fences are covered by the snow, so that no obstacles are
offered to pedestrians unless they are bold enough to enter the woods.
Walking upon snow-shoes is a regular part of the training of soldiers in
garrison here and at Montreal. There are snow-shoe clubs, which have
races during the season, sometimes over hurdles three feet high. I have
seen a good performer jump higher than that upon his snow-shoes. This
training enables the sportsman to range the forest with ease, and to
follow the tracks of the moose until he brings it to bay,--for the
animal is heavy, and sinks deep into the snow at every plunge. With the
caribou it is not so easy to come up, the hoofs of that animal being so
arranged as to spread out and offer some resistance to the snow. When
the hunter goes about his work in earnest, the hardship and fatigue
attending this kind of sport are very great. In the little churchyard at
Riviere-du-Loup, one hundred and twenty miles below Quebec, there is a
tombstone to the memory of Captain Turner, an English officer who went
there many years ago to hunt moose. I made inquiries about him from the
people of the village, who told me that his death was caused by
over-fatigue in running down moose, and afterwards conveying the
venison, together with the immense heads and horns,