HIS FIRST WINTER 131 



lay on the glittering snow embedded to half its 

 spread. 



All that day its counterpart, holding in its palma- 

 tion a tiny field of frozen snow, stood firm, in spite 

 of vigorous efforts made to dislodge it from its 

 pedicel. Furiously its wearer thrashed the odd 

 adornment against bushes, against the stems of 

 trees, and shook himself in gusts, giving no time 

 to feeding, but all to the throwing aside of an 

 unwanted horn. 



Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown. How 

 much uneasier a moose-head that wears but half I 



All night the restless bull tossed and turned 

 on his snowy bed, until with the morning the 

 stately antler went down before the smashing blows 

 it sustained as its irritated wearer brought the 

 strong bone-work to bear on the task of demolishing 

 a stalwart hemlock. 



The five-year-old bull lost his antlers next, the 

 three-year-old a day or so later. Whether Moosewa's 

 little spikes cast themselves or not he did not know. 

 Such apologies for antlers could not concern anyone. 

 Best to ignore them. Only those vast bony leaves, 

 prinked at their wide edges into curious frills and 

 outstanding points, counted. 



