Now Newfoundland is becoming better known, the living treasures of her forests, moors, and waters are attracting an annually increasing number of sportsmen from Great Britain, the United States, and Canada. “Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife,” the sportsman may return for a season to the simpler life lived by races of men in the days when modern commercial methods were undreamed of, when the starry sky was the hunter’s jewelled roof, when the spongelike moss was his pillow, when time was not divided into sections, and he was not forced to calculate

Except where the snort of the engine is heard, or the song of the fisherman repairing his nets comes through the ravine, or the whistle of the woodman accompanies the clang of his axe, the country is as wild and natural and silent as when it first drank in the showers of heaven, and laughed in the sunshine of a summer day. Among the larger game are the caribou and bears; foxes, lynxes and wolves are also plentiful, as are the otter, mink, Arctic hare, and the rabbit. The caribou is most graceful in appearance, usually weighs about 500 pounds, and its antlers are a treasure much coveted by sportsmen all the world over. The caribou is a most sensitive animal, and unless the huntsman has made a study of its movements, he may have some difficulty in bringing his prey to earth. Many of the huntsmen take a supply of provisions into the caribou regions, and, with the aid of a guide, move from place to place, spending the night in the open or in a small tent. Of course, if they wait until the season when the animals migrate from the north to the south of the island, they are more certain of good sport; but sometimes that season is too cold to be thoroughly enjoyed by the huntsman, who likes to take his sport under as comfortable conditions as possible.

Ptarmigan-shooting is another favourite sport among the tourists, and is enjoyed no less by the inhabitants. The ptarmigan very closely resembles the red grouse of Scotland, and in the months of October and November hundreds of these birds are shot and forwarded to St. John’s, where they are readily purchased by the residents, who consider them unsurpassed as a table delicacy. The wild berries that ripen in August and September make a palatable food for the ptarmigan, and the effect of this diet is registered in their plump, rich, and tender flesh.

If you were sitting under the shade of a tree by a secluded pond in the months of June and July, you would doubtless see a fine large bird moving gracefully along the edge of the water, followed by a procession of smaller birds. This is the wild-goose leading her children towards the brooks, and if the sportsman is wise enough to avoid suspicion on the part of the leader, he may rely upon bagging one or two remarkably fine birds.

The plover and the curlew are more abundant than other birds. They usually come in flocks from their breeding quarters in Labrador, and their rather awkward flight is perhaps attributable to the weight of the fat stomachs they have to carry along with them. They are not sought assiduously by sportsmen, but they supply the woodmen, farmers, and fishermen with a very acceptable dish.

More than one-quarter of Newfoundland is covered by water, and all the lakes and fiords are stocked with fish, thus making them an angler’s paradise. Some anglers prefer travelling from 50 to 200 miles from St. John’s in order to whip the rivers and streams that are known to yield excellent salmon. Nevertheless, good salmon-fishing can be procured within a few hours from the capital.

One of the most popular angling resorts is Log Cabin, on the west coast. The hotel is situated in the heart of some of Newfoundland’s most bewitching scenery. It is kept by two Englishmen, and was built in accordance with their own designs. High mountains slope down to the pretty English garden, which is stocked with native flowers; but the most surprising flower of all is the foxglove, the sight of which transports one to the lanes and meadows of old England. Harry’s Brook, which is really a river, rolls along at the foot of the mountain through a tangle of ferns and flowers, and through bright blue eyes the iris looks up at the scarlet cheeks of the wild raspberries. Here, when the day’s sport is ended, the angler sits in his easy-chair under the wide veranda of the Log Cabin, watching the sunset over that panorama of beauty the Bay of Islands.

Angling in the lakes for trout is also a delightful sport. Within ten miles of St. John’s there are large expanses of water that are alive with Loch Leven and Californian rainbow trout. On a charming June morning you decide to leave the city and spend the day with rod and line upon the lakes in your little canvas boat. You see that your conveyance contains a kettle, a teapot, and a good supply of food, for when you reach the side of the lake you will find it almost impossible to satisfy your hunger. Away you start at a rattling pace, and in a short time you find yourself in the heart of primitive scenery. What does it matter if the trout refuse to bite? The air has given you a new lease of life, the blue sky has got into your soul, the odour of the avenues of spruce-trees makes you smack your lips, and at every turn in the road you are greeted by some stream that babbles through a cluster of ferns and flowers. Then your horse creeps panting up a steep hill, whose summit introduces you to a glimpse of the great Atlantic, or a quaint little fishing village sleeping in a cuplike hollow near the seashore. At last you reach the lake, unharness the horse, prepare your rod and line, fix your boat on the water, and lure your fish to the surface of the lake by the aid of your “Silver Doctor,” for that is the fly that seems best to tempt the palate of the “rainbow,” and “Loch Leven.” When you have whipped the water for a few hours, you suddenly get a telegraphic message from your stomach that it is time to dine. You pull up to the edge of the water, make an extempore fire-grate out of the boulders, snap off some dry spruce-twigs, and in a short time the mouth of your kettle is belching forth boiling water. The only sounds to be heard are the crackling of the burning twigs and the song of your kettle. One member of the party spreads the cloth upon the velvet moss, one makes the tea, one opens the tinned peaches, and another goes into the wood with a dish to gather wild raspberries, to add lusciousness to the pot of cream.

When the meal is over, you take to your boat again, and “swish, swish” go the lines once more. A few more fish are gathered in. You take another meal, and then fish on until you are satisfied with the day’s sport. Satisfied! Was any angler ever satisfied? No! You decide to fish on until darkness covers the face of the water.

At last a mist comes over the lake, the moon begins to show her face above the hills, and you pull reluctantly to the side. The horse looks at you, as much as to say, “I thought you fellows were going to stay all night.” Your goods and chattels are packed up, the horse is harnessed, and off you scamper for St. John’s and home.

The moonbeams streak the water, and you look back upon the lake with a feeling akin to that with which you look from the deck of a steamer upon the friends you are leaving behind.

As you wend your way home, the scenery, under the influence of the moon, seems more bewitching than ever. The Northern Lights cast a halo over the hills and waters and forests, and you wish that the ten miles’ drive were fifty.

“Glorious day’s sport, boys!” says one of the party, as we see the tower on Signal Hill silhouetted against the dark blue sky. “Grand! grand!” is the unanimous reply.