‘SAVED BY THE CATTLE.’
“I was talking to an old farmer whom I had chanced to come across, and who had passed me a cheery good-day. After I had spoken of the crops, and he had praised my new gun, I broached a subject of much interest to myself.
“How do you account for the fact, if it is a fact,” said I, slipping a cartridge into my right barrel, “that the caribou are getting yearly more numerous in the interior of New Brunswick, while other game seems to be disappearing. As for the wild pigeons, you may say they are all gone. Here I have been on the go since before sunrise, and that bird is the only sign of a pigeon I have so much as got a glimpse of.”
“‘Well,’ replied my companion, as for the pigeons, I can’t say how it is. In old times I’ve seen them so plenty round here you could knock them down with a stick; that is, if you were anyways handy with a stick. But they do say that caribou are increasing because the wolves have disappeared. You see, the wolves used to be the worst enemy of the caribou, because they could run them down nice and handy in winter, when the snow was deep and the crust so thin that the caribou were bound to break through it at every step. However, I don’t believe there has been a wolf seen in this part of the country for fifty years, and it’s only within the last ten years or so that the caribou have got more plenty.”
“We had seated ourselves, the old farmer and I, on a ragged snake-fence that bounded a buckwheat-field overlooking the river. The field was a new clearing, and the ripened buckwheat reared its brown heads among a host of blackened and distorted stumps. It was a crisp and delicious autumn morning, and the solitary pigeon that had rewarded my long tramp over the uplands was one that I had surprised at its breakfast in the buckwheat. Now, finding that my new acquaintance was likely to prove interesting, I dropped my gun gently into the fence corner, loosened my belt a couple of holes, and asked the farmer if he had himself ever seen any wolves in New Brunswick.
“‘Not to say many,’ was the old man’s reply; ‘but they say that troubles never come single, and so, what wolves I have seen, I saw them all in a heap, so to speak.’
“As he spoke, the old man fixed his eyes on a hilltop across the river, with a far-off look that seemed to promise a story. I settled into an attitude of encouraging attention, and waited for him to go on. His hand stole deep into the pocket of his gray homespun trousers, and brought to view a fig of ‘black-jack,’ from which he gnawed a thoughtful bite.
“Instinctively he passed the tobacco to me; and on my declining it, which I did with grave politeness, he began the following story:—
“When I was a little shaver about thirteen years old, I was living on a farm across the river, some ten miles up. It was a new farm, which father was cutting out of the woods; but it had a good big bit of ‘interval,’ so we were able to keep a lot of stock.
“One afternoon late in the fall, father sent me down to the interval, which was a good two miles from the house, to bring the cattle home. They were pasturing on the aftermath; but the weather was getting bad, and the grass was about done, and father thought the ‘critters,’ as we called them, would be much better in the barn. My little ten-year-old brother went with me, to help me drive them. That was the time I found out there were wolves in New Brunswick.