MOOSEWA^S DEATH 247 



of the tide, its lesser width for the miles he had 

 tackled so boldly. He stood on the shore, gazing 

 across the divide. In and out between his splay 

 feet the mud oozed and gurgled The birds were 

 gone now. It was deathly silent. 



The sun climbed over a gleaming white cone, 

 most lofty and noble of all the distant peaks, and 

 the rays reflected a thousand tints with a brilliancy 

 only to be seen in far northern climes. The light 

 danced and flickered on the highest snow-clad tops, 

 and fell slowly athwart the river, outlining the 

 fretted clumps of trees lining the farther shore. 



Slowly the moose turned his massive head and 

 looked behind him into the deeps of the forest. If 

 the lynx was there — what matter ? 



The immense freedom ahead, the cold nip in the 

 breeze as it stirred his thick coat, and the urge in 

 his blood to return — to return — to return — gave 

 him courage. Throwing his antlers back in very 

 gladness, he blared out the challenge call, proudly, 

 triumphantly, then listened intently. Again the 

 coughing, panting roar. It sang over the water, 

 the trees beat it back, and somewhere in the bluffs 

 away to the west the echoes caught it and cried 

 its requiem. 



