green of their young leaves the sombre reaches of upland
jack-pine and spruce. Rimming the rivers with red, the new shoots of the
willows appeared. At dawn, now, from dripping spires, white-throats and
hermit thrush, fleeter than the spring, startled the drowsing forest
with a reveille of song.

One afternoon in May on his return from picking up a line of traps to be
cached for use the following winter, Marcel went to the neighboring
pond to lift his net. For safety on the rapidly sponging ice he wore his
snow-shoes and carried a twelve-foot spruce pole. He had reset the net
and was lashing an anchor line to a stake when suddenly the honeycombed
shell crumbled beneath his feet.

As he sank, he lunged for the pole he had dropped to set the net, but
the surface settled under his leap carrying him into the water. Fighting
in the mush ice for the pole almost within reach, to his horror he found
his right foot trapped. He could not move farther in that direction. The
snow-shoe was caught in the net.

Marcel turned back floundering to the edge of firm ice, where he held
himself afloat. Fast numbing with cold, as he clung, caught like a
beaver in a trap, he knew that it was but a matter of minutes. Fleur, if
only Fleur were there! But Fleur was hunting in the "bush."

With a great effort he braced himself on his elbows, got his frozen
fingers between his teeth, and blew the signal, once heard, his dog had
never failed to answer.

To the joy of the man slowly chilling to the bone, a yelp sounded in the
forest. Rallying his ebbing strength, again Marcel whistled. Shortly
Fleur appeared on the shore, sighted the master and bounded through the
surface slop out to the fishing hole. Reaching Marcel, the husky seized
a skin sleeve of his capote and arching her great back, fought the
slippery footing in a mad effort to drag him from the water. But the net
held him fast.

"De stick, Fleur! De stick dere!" Marcel pointed toward the pole.

Sensing his gesture, the dog brought the pole to the ice edge. Then with
the pole bridging the hole, its ends on firm ice, Marcel worked his way
to the submerged net, but the sinkers had hopelessly tangled the meshes
with his snow-shoe. Under his soggy capote was his knife. His stiff
fingers fumbled desperately with the knot of his sash but failed to
loose it. Again Fleur seized his sleeve and pulled until she rolled
backward with a patch of the tough hide in her teeth.

The situation of the t