DEATH OF THE MOOSE COW 83 



sandhill cranes went back to the northern nesting- 

 grounds. He ran around his prison as each fresh 

 flight renewed his pain, making odd little noises in 

 his throat, until Sadie laughed and laughed with 

 pleasure at what she thought were signs of his con- 

 tentment and peace. 



As it grew dark another skein of geese, number- 

 ing two hundred or more, flew by, so low that the 

 moose thought he could see the colour of the 

 leader's wings. 



" It is Pishnekuh, the black goose," he said to 

 himself, hearing in fancy the chatter of the ducks 

 by the lagoon, and the snapping of the birch bark 

 before the chisel teeth of the world-builders. 

 " Pishnekuh, going North to nest." 



He ceased to eat. Better death than a life 

 dragged on in slavery. From the lure of budding 

 spruce- tops and juicy moose grasses he turned, and 

 lay for hours drooping in his shed, drinking some- 

 times, but eating not at all. 



" Say, Cretney, what's amiss with my moose ?" 

 asked Sadie of a young trapper, who, with his furs 

 disposed of at small profit to himself and con- 

 siderable gain to the dealer, was lounging the day 

 away propped up against the snake fence, smoking. 



