58 THE MOOSE 



It was August now. Everywhere the pea-vine, 

 run riot, hung out its blue and purple arras. In 

 grim Alaska summer is like a magician who changes, 

 as with a wand of gold, the harsh surface of the 

 earth to paradise. Every yard of the soft marshes 

 near the river brimmed over with flowers : a blaze 

 of narcissus buttercups made a carpet of glowing 

 colour ; the blue of the polemonium and the bluer 

 forget-me-not commingled ; gentle breezes wafted 

 the fragrance of this wealth of scented flora. Clouded 

 yellow buttei*flies fluttered hither and thither ; ariel- 

 winged fritillaries, too, like white blossoms blown 

 by the wind. 



The squirrels began storing pine-nuts in the little 

 hill-side colonies, and strong broods of fowl-grouse 

 and ptarmigan picked a living among the scrub 

 bushes. 



Rambling down a lonely track, the moose calf 

 strode right into the midst of a fluffy band of cheep- 

 ing yellow chickens, crushing one flat beneath his 

 careless splay hoof. To the right and left the 

 survivors scattered, and at his murderous hoof 

 came the gallant little hen, making a reconnais- 

 sance in force until the helpless chickens found 

 safety, her tiny eyes aflame, feathers ruftled, hissing 



