246 THE MOOSE 



pine-tops, the sound of the stream as it thudded 

 into the dead cave-roots of overhanging trees, the 

 croak of the raven scavengers cleaning up de- 

 composing drift sahnon — they were all part of the 

 fear that lay over him like a pall. 



Other moose there were about him. One fine 

 seven-year-old, carrying a good head, though not 

 very massive or wide in the beam, sometimes 

 looked in on the derelict and gave him greeting. 

 But when the youngster saw how fragile was the 

 thread which bound the older beast to life, he lost 

 interest and sought another companion. 



And the lynx was always there, waiting tirelessly. 

 Another had joined him, and once or twice two 

 evil -spirited kittens came and fought one another 

 in the underbrush. 



The moose still thought of his own district. If 

 he pressed south or north, or west or east, here- 

 abouts he must come on mining camps, salmon 

 canneries, trading-posts. Then, as his wits grew 

 feebler, and the wonderful instincts Nature had 

 endowed him with dimmed, he believed the swiftly 

 flowing river to be the arm of the sea by which he 

 had crossed from the Alaskan Peninsula. Its 

 rock-stirred waters he mistook for the dull swell 



