Hunting in Many Lands 



out on the cold air from the side of the pond 

 that we had just left. I think Chabot was 

 right about the cow being in the bushes, but 

 he may have been mistaken — one's hearing 

 becomes unnaturally sensitive after a few 

 weeks' continuous straining to catch and distin- 

 guish the most distant sounds. But there was 

 no mistake about that bull's call. He was well 

 back from the shore on the hillside. The 

 wind was wrong, and, although he grunted 

 at intervals for an hour, he paid no attention 

 to Chabot's most seductive pleadings. We 

 imitated with paddles the splashings of a 

 cow walking in the shallow water, but this and 

 other devices had no effect. When at last 

 even my Indian could no longer bear the 

 bitter cold of the wind which had sprung up, 

 we started for camp. Long past midnight 

 we crawled into our blankets, and I dropped 

 asleep cursing the day I had first gone after 

 moose. 



We were on that pond again before daylight. 

 Not a sound to be heard, not a living thing 

 to be seen, when the sun rose. We took our 

 stand on a small point opposite the outlet and 

 watched. I sat on a fallen tree motionless, 

 hour after hour. Chabot dozed beside me. 



94 



