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It was in the month of October that one of the officers had been asked to join a hunting party under the direction of one of the most reputed hunters of the Chippewas, and there was little doubt that something or another would be slaughtered. I was agonized at the idea of being beaten, and resolved to hunt the same day by myself. I had previously been some 8 or 10 miles back in the forest and on one occasion had wounded a buck, so that I had some little knowledge of the bush.

Before daybreak on the day in question, I was equipped and off for my hunting ground. For hours I had toiled without coming on the track of game, when in the hollow occasioned by a tree being torn torn up with its roots and filled with water, I descried a turkey track, and soon after the tracks of a flock: for several miles, I followed it up sometimes losing it for a mile together, then discovering it on the log of a rotten tree where the brood had been scratching and dusting themselves