where you will in the woods of Rupert's Land, the instant that you
light a fire two or three whisky-johns come down and sit beside you, on
a branch, it may be, or on the ground, and generally so near that you
cannot but wonder at their recklessness. There is a species of
impudence which seems to be specially attached to little birds. In them
it reaches the highest pitch of perfection. A bold, swelling, arrogant
effrontery--a sort of stark, staring, sell-complacent, comfortable, and
yet innocent impertinence--which is at once irritating and amusing,
aggravating and attractive, and which is exhibited in the greatest
intensity in the whisky-john. He will jump down almost under your nose,
and seize a fragment of biscuit or pemmican. He will go right into the
pemmican-bag, when you are but a few paces off, and pilfer, as it were,
at the fountain-head. Or if these resources are closed against him, he
will sit on a twig, within an inch of your head, and look at you as only
a whisky-john _can_ look.

"I'll catch one of these rascals," said Harry, as he saw them jump
unceremoniously into and out of the pemmican bag.

Going down to the boat, Harry hid himself under the tarpaulin, leaving a
hole open near to the mouth of the bag. He had not remained more than a
few minutes in this concealment when one of the birds flew down, and
alighted on the edge of the boat. After a glance round to see that all
was right, it jumped into the bag. A moment after, Harry, darting his
hand through the aperture, grasped him round the neck and secured him.
Poor whisky-john screamed and pecked ferociously, while Harry brought
him in triumph to his friend; but so unremittingly did the bird scream
that his captor was fain at last to let him off, the more especially as
the cook came up at the moment and announced that breakfast was ready.

CHAPTER TWELVE.

THE STORM.

Two days after the events of the last chapter, the brigade was making
one of the traverses which have already been noticed as of frequent
occurrence in the great lakes. The morning was calm and sultry. A deep
stillness pervaded nature, which tended to produce a corresponding
quiescence in the mind, and to fill it with those indescribably solemn
feelings that frequently arise before a thunderstorm. Dark, lurid
clouds hung overhead in gigantic masses, piled above each other like the
battlements of a dark fortress, from whose ragged embrasures the
artillery of heaven was a