THE FOREST KING 167 



off to the islets and sheltered brakes, the ancient 

 female remained with Moosewa still. Her calving 

 days were over. 



She ended her career ignominously in a tundra 

 bog. A perfect wallowing place it seemed, slushy 

 for three or four feet down, and then frozen beneath, 

 which gave good standing-ground. The weather 

 was open, and a network of subterranean streams 

 undermined the marshlands draining to the river. 



Across the desolate tracks of wanderers in the 

 wilderness, by shallow beds, where little pools of 

 sienna-coloured water filled up the gaps made by 

 the wallowing moose of years, the golden plovers, 

 in solitary pairs, with chequered wings, lighted on 

 the expanse tapestried with blazing lupines, yellow 

 anemones, and calypso orchids — a scheme of colour 

 impossible to any artist save Nature. 



The drone of many insects, the soft squelch of 

 displaced mud, and the splash of the distant water- 

 fall, lulled the young bull to sleep. He stood with 

 his back to the keen wind blowing over the tundra, 

 swaying slightly as he dozed. 



The cow let herself down into the murky depths, 

 and wallowed with grunts of pleasure until the 

 thick mud rose to her middle. 



