224 THE MOOSE 



no means done, the big moose hauled out, grunting, 

 on a little beach, the threshold of a new world — the 

 Kenai Peninsula. 



Still grunting, he shook himself vigorously, toss- 

 ing his horns back on his flanks. Then, dripping 

 water in rivulets as he moved, he walked towards 

 the forest belt at a slow pace, into a thick tangle of 

 green such as his heart loved. 



Here and there blackened, bare tree-stems held 

 up maimed limbs in piteous appeal. A desolate bit 

 of country, licked up by forest fires, but with a 

 kindly carpet of the ever-ready devil's club to 

 make the poor nakedness less acute. 



Forest fires sometimes burn on the Kenai Penin- 

 sula, but not to any extent. Though the growth 

 of grass is, in places, wonderful, the dews at night 

 are so heavy that a fire — invariably the work of 

 native incendiaries — goes out by degrees as it gets 

 on to fresh ground. 



Some thirty years ago the forest was set on fire 

 by KussilofF natives, and several thousands of acres 

 of timber was destroyed. It is on this very ground, 

 where the young birch and willow have grown up 

 amongst the dead and fallen fir-trees, that the 

 moose of to-day gets the fine browsing which 



