"Hugh, my lad Hugh, run and tell Madge we have come back," cried Uncle Donald, as he and I entered the house on our return, one summer's evening, from a hunting excursion in search of deer or any other game we could come across, accompanied by three of our dogs, Whiskey, Pilot, and Muskymote. As he spoke, he unstrapped from his shoulders a heavy load of caribou meat. I, having a similar load, did the same-mine was lighter than his-and, Hugh not appearing, I went to the door and again called. No answer came. "Rose, my bonnie Rose Madge, I say Madge Where are you all?" shouted Uncle Donald, while he hung his rifle, with his powder-horn and shot-pouch, in their accustomed places on the wall.