The character of the country was changing, too. The naked land and
rocks and dead trees gave way to a forest of green spruce, and the
ground was again covered with a thick carpet of white caribou moss.

We were catching no fish, however, although our efforts to lure them
to the hook or entangle them in the net were never relinquished. Pork
was a luxury, and no baker ever produced anything half so dainty and
delicious as our squaw bread. A strict distribution of rations was
maintained, and when the pork was fried, Pete, with a spoon, dished
out the grease into the five plates in equal shares. Into this the
quarter loaf ration of bread was broken and the mixture eaten to the
last morsel. Sometimes the men drank the warm pork grease clear.
Finally it became so precious that they licked their plates after
scraping them with their spoons, and the longing eyes that were cast
at the frying pan made me fear that some time a raid would be made on
that.

One day, an owl was shot and went into the pot to keep company with a
couple of partridges. Pete demurred. "Owl eat mice," said he. "Not
good man eat him.

"You can count me out on owl, too," Richards volunteered.

"Oh! they're all right," I assured them. "The Labrador people always
eat them and you'll find them very nice."

"Not me. Owl eat mice," Pete insisted.

"Well," I suggested, "possibly we'll be eating mice, too, before we
get home, and it's a good way to begin by eating owl--for then the