hunter; for a second the two inheritances played like colors in shot
silk, producing an elusive fabric, Rafael's charm. "If nights get so
colder, m'sieur go need moose skin kip him warm."

I was looking over my flies now, the book open before me, its
fascinating pages of color more brilliant than an old missal, and maybe
as filled with religion--the peace of God, charity which endureth, love
to one's neighbor. I chose a Parmachene Belle for hand-fly, always good
in Canadian waters. "A moose-skin hasn't much warmth, has it, Rafael?"

The hunter was back, hawk-eyed. "But yes, m'sieu. Moose skin one time
safe me so I don' freeze to death. But it hol' me so tight so I nearly
don' get loose in de morning."

"What do you mean?" I was only half listening, for a brown hackle and a
Montreal were competing for the middle place on my cast, and it was a
vital point. But Rafael liked to tell a story, and had come by now to a
confidence in my liking to hear him. He flashed a glance to gather up my
attention, and cleared his throat and began: "Dat was one time--I go on
de woods--hunt wid my fader-in-law--_mon beau-père_. It was mont' of
March--and col'--but ver' col' and wet. So it happen we separate, my
fador-in-law and me, to hunt on both side of large enough river. And I
kill moose. What, m'sieur? What sort of gun? Yes. It was rifle--what one
call flint-lock. Large round bore. I cast dat beeg ball myself, what I
kill dat moose. Also it was col'. And so it happen my matches got wet,
but yes, ev-very one. So I couldn' buil' fire. I was tired, yes, and
much col'. I t'ink in my head to hurry and skin dat moose and wrap
myself in dat skin and go sleep on de snow because if not I would die, I
was so col' and so tired. I do dat. I skin heem--_je le plumait_--de
beeg moose--beeg skin. Skin all warm off moose; I wrap all aroun' me and