when we could get them, and sometimes a little pea soup. The pea
meal, plain and flavoured, was originally intended as a sort of
emergency ration, but we had drawn on our stock of it alarmingly.
Our flour, too, was going rapidly, and the time was drawing near
when we felt that the ration of bread must be cut down.

The only thing, perhaps, that we really craved was fresh meat. For
several days after leaving the post we had experienced a decided
craving for acids, but that craving had been partially satisfied
when, on the barren hills that border the Valley of the Susan, we
found a few cranberries that had survived the winter. Every day
while we were on Goose Creek we caught a few small trout. When we
halted for any purpose, Hubbard always whipped the stream. He was
a tireless as well as an expert fisherman. He would fish long
after I had become discouraged, and catch them in pools where they
positively refused to rise for me. The trout thus obtained were
relished, but a fish diet is not strengthening, neither is it
satisfying, and as we had had no fresh meat since the day we landed
at Indian Harbour a month before, our longing for it had become
importunate.

Imagine our joy, then, when on August 3d, the day we discovered the
petering out of Goose Creek, some fresh meat came our way. Most
unexpectedly was the day turned into one of feasting and
thanksgiving. As we were preparing, soon after passing the beaver
house, to pack at the foot of a rapid just below a little pond
expansion, Hubbard saw four geese swimming slowly down the stream.
He and George had just lifted their packs from the canoe, while I,
some little distance off, had mine on my back. Hubbard had his
rifle in his hands. George, who caught sight of the geese almost