it was my good fortune to be in london on "leave" the day the armistice was signed. at 11 o'clock in the morning the multitude of giant "siren" whistles, used for warning the approach of enemy air-craft, broke into a wild chorus of deafening howls, and londoners knew that germany, the aggressor, had accepted the lowly seat of the vanquished. the sounds of public rejoicing commenced immediately and by the late afternoon the celebration was in full swing. it was a celebration in which i could not be content with a spectator's part. i entered into it with all my heart. the whole outburst, for the first day at least, was the spontaneous and natural expression of joy at a glad release from the curse of war, which had lain heavily upon the old land for four long, black, bitter years.

i then started out early in the evening, mingling with the immense crowds down southampton row and kingsway to the strand, along to trafalgar square, then up to piccadilly, and home after midnight by way of regent and oxford streets. all those great thoroughfares and squares were filled from side to side with whirlpools of people. everywhere were groups of dancers or singers, all sorts of foolish processions big and little, all sorts of bands, noisemakers and fireworks. workmen standing on ladders, surrounded by thousands of madly cheering observers, were taking the light-shields off the street-lamps. this meant that london streets would be lighted for the first time since 1914. in the immense moving crowds huge circles would form as if by magic, then everyone in it, all strangers to one another, would join hands and dance up and down, and in and out, to some old song. i got into one of these happy groups by chance in front of nelson's monument in trafalgar square, where we all danced up to the centre and back singing, "here we go gathering nuts in may," and then commenced to circle round to the chorus of "ring-a-ring-a-rosy." we were just like a throng of happy children at a picnic. then the formation dissolved, and its members disappeared into the singing, shouting, noisy crowds.

i fell in with an english officer, and he and i joined forces with an english bugler wearing an australian soldier's hat. he had lost his own cap and had picked this one up somewhere. we three marched along arm-in-arm; the bugler would blow a call, then pass the bugle to us and we would each make some hideous noises upon it. i had my cameron glengarry on and as we crushed along with the crowd, every now and then, out of the clamor, i could hear voices calling to me, "well done, jock," "good old scotty." don't think we were at all conspicuous, for nearly everyone was doing things quite as foolish. we felt compelled to shout, cheer, sing, or do something to express our overflowing joy that the war was past at long last. these people of the old country knew the deep tragedy, the terrible heart-breaking, nerve-racking strain of the war as canada could not know it. "it was meet that they should make merry and be glad." i saw practically no drinking nor roughness. it was a remarkable demonstration free, that night, from all the artificiality of pre-arrangement.

next day i attended the thanksgiving service at st. paul's cathedral. the king and queen were there and many personages of note, but it was common folk who filled the vast building and crowded the streets for blocks around. there was no sermon. there could not have been any sermon or preacher adequate to such an occasion. the fortieth chapter of isaiah was read, and how mystically and beautifully it expressed our thoughts, short prayers were said, and then the people stood up to sing, led by a great military massed band and the cathedral organ. the instrumental music alone was enough to thrill one's soul, but when those thousands joined, with heart and voice, in melodious thanksgiving to god for release from the abundant travail of the bitter years, filling the glorious old temple full with a glad tumultuous harmony, the effect was indescribable. hundreds were so moved they could find no voice for song, and could only lift their faces to heaven with tears of joy running down their cheeks. in all the history of the empire there never was a moment when the whole british people were so stirred and held by such high and tense emotion. the glad, loud song of thankfulness had also the minor note vibrant with sorrow, there was the echo of a sob in it. this great nation, rejoicing in righteous victory, kept sad and sacred memories of her million slain.

while in london for these few wonderful days i stayed at the west central hotel, and there, one afternoon later in the week, i was delighted to meet an old "tillicum" of the trails, tom patton. for three rare days we companied together and talked about old friends and other days. we revelled in memories of the glorious years we spent together in the far-off northland. in imagination we travelled again many a well-known mile, and memorable experiences we had in common were recalled. i was sorry when the last day of my leave came, for patton was one of the very best of my old yukon friends and "there are no friends like the old friends after all." that last evening three other old klondikers, whom we had discovered in london, foregathered with us in my room and enjoyed a yukon evening. there were many interesting stories told that night. each had his own contribution, and there were some yarns in whose spinning we all lent a hand. there was one in which patton and i had equal share, one i had often told to my comrades in france to while away a weary hour. it described a hunting trip up the yukon river he and i took one fall to get some wild-fowl. we ran on bigger game and that is why i call it a moose hunt.

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in 1906, late in the autumn, when every night brought sharp frost, and fish and fowl were heading for the sea and the south to escape the icy-fingers of on-coming winter, patton and i planned a fortnight's holiday up the yukon to shoot ducks.

we hired a rowboat at dawson, and put it aboard a river steamboat on which we had taken passage up-stream about a hundred miles to the mouth of white river. there the steamer slowed up enough to let us launch our boat and get into it with our outfit, leaving us then on the great river to our own devices.

we decided to make camp immediately for it was getting on in the day. so we pulled across to the left bank, tied up our boat, and commenced to look about us. i noticed a well-marked trail in the brush which i followed for a few yards and came on a cabin. i knocked at the door and it was quickly opened by the occupant. i told him who i was and he asked me in. the place was dark, dirty, and smelly, nor was i taken with the man's personal appearance, for his hair was long and tangled, and his face almost hidden by an untrimmed beard. his welcome was genuine, however, and when i grew accustomed to the dim candle-light i noticed that he had clear, kindly eyes. he was glad to see me. i was his first visitor in three months. he had staked some gold-bearing rock, and there he had lived alone for a year trying to uncover it enough to prove it a real ledge, and to prospect it sufficiently so that he might interest "capital" in it. he had absolute faith in the value of his find, talking with assurance of the day when he would sell it for thousands.

i informed him that i had a partner and called to patton who came along. we told him what we were out for. he advised us to stay the night there, and in the early morning we would be sure to get some sport in the marshes, ponds, and slack-water where the white joins the yukon. he wouldn't hear of us making camp for ourselves, and we had to accept his hospitality. he was very lonely, he said, and it did him a whole lot of good to see us and have some talk.

late in the afternoon we went out to examine the ground and arrange our morning shoot. we heard a strange noise coming from beyond the distant northern skyline of the river valley. it sounded like the far-off cackling of barn-yard geese. soon the source of it appeared in the north. it was the advance guard of a great flight of sandhill cranes on their journey to the south coast. they are toothsome birds, about the size of a small turkey but standing higher. they are very shy and it is all but impossible to get them within range of a shot-gun. i am not exaggerating when i say that they flew for two hours in a continuous, clamorous stream of arrow-shaped formations from our northern horizon, until they disappeared from view over the southern hills. there were thousands of them in that one contingent.

the old-timer, "alabama bill" he was called, served for supper that night a meat-stew composed of porcupine, moose-meat and other things. i ate my share and kept it. patton is more sensitive that way than i am, and on this occasion he proved traitor to the good old british maxim, "what we have, we hold." i don't blame him. one had need of keen appetite and strong digestion to enjoy and profit by that mysterious mixture. "alabama" made us talk far on into the morning, but at last we rolled into our bunks. we slept uneasily for various causes, and were glad to get out in the early morning to be ready in position for daylight and our birds.

to make a long story short, we had good luck the next ten days as we floated downstream towards dawson, tying up and camping when and where we wished, and hunting in likely places. the sloughs and little lakes were alive with ducks and geese, and we had our boat half-full of them before we reached indian river. from that point it was an easy day's run to dawson.

we made camp on the shore at indian in the afternoon, and went back into the thick woods on the extensive flats behind us to explore. we came on a pond and got a few more ducks. this pond was peculiar in that at one side a trail led down to it, and the shore was trampled as if herds of cattle were accustomed to water there. it was a "moose-lick," a place to which for years, at certain seasons, the moose came at night from miles around, because the water and soil had in them some salty substance which they liked or needed.

we weren't hunting big game and so had brought only one rifle for emergencies, but here was a chance right under our noses that we couldn't pass, although we knew it was rather late in the season for moose to visit the lick. at the edge of the pond we picked a good-sized tree that we could climb and find secure footing in. then we went back the half-mile to the shore and had supper.

when it grew dark we went out to our tree and climbed up in it, to watch for the possible coming of the moose. for four long, miserably cold hours we clung to our perch. it was pitch dark and absolutely silent, save for the dull murmur of the yukon, and the "plunk, plunk" of some little diving duck at long intervals in the pond. half-a-dozen times we were inclined to abandon our vigil, but one encouraged the other and we hung on. about midnight we were rewarded by hearing, through the darkness, a sound like the breaking of a branch away on the mountain slope. it startled us, coming on us out of the night when we were tense with prolonged listening to unbroken silence. soon there was no mistaking the approach of the monarch of the woods. it seemed as if some great boulder were crashing down the hillside through the trees. every now and then there would be a minute of complete stillness, and we could imagine him standing, with lordly, lifted head and wide-branching antlers, listening and sniffing the air for strange noises or smells. he seemed satisfied that no danger lurked in the woods, for he came straight across from the foot of the mountain. at last by the noise we knew he was nearing our tree. nearer he came and very near, leisurely now, probably feeding. in the dense darkness we could see nothing of him as yet until we heard something scrape against our tree. looking down with straining eyes, i marked his dark, slowly-moving outline in the brush. i could have dropped on the animal's back had i been so minded. the proverbial "salt" might easily have been placed on his tail. the time for action had come. i had the rifle. in the darkness i couldn't see the barrel, so real aiming was impossible, but the moose was that near i felt i couldn't miss him anyway. i fired where i judged his shoulder should be. i regret to tell you that the flame of the gun showed that the bullet had gone an inch over his back, and i had missed him altogether! my left arm was around a limb and so the second shot was a trifle slow, but after the first, it seemed as if the moose jumped into the air, turned, and was fifty feet away in the timber on his back-trail when he lit! we heard him going at head-long speed and fired at the noise, but he went on until the sound died away in the distance.

we crawled down to the ground, stiff with cold, and dumb with disappointment. i knew it was a complete miss, but "hope springs eternal in the human breast," and we lighted matches and searched the ground and leaves for bloodstains. we searched his trail thus for twenty yards, then gave up, went back to camp and under our blankets. patton was very decent about it. he knew how i felt. once only did he make reference to my failure. the next day we were nearing dawson, where our friends would come and inspect our "bag," when he said, "well, george, wouldn't it be pleasant to pull into dawson with a fine moose lying between us in the boat?" "don't say another word, tom," i replied, "or i'll burst into tears!"

i felt my almost inexcusable failure very keenly, for i made three separate trips, alone, to indian river, and hunted there persistently, and very uncomfortably too, for that moose, but he never gave me another chance.