The Moose. 213 



broadened into small willow-bordered pools. I knew at 

 once that a moose was in one of these pools, wading about 

 and pulling up the water-lilies by seizing their slippery 

 stems in his lips, plunging his head deep under water to 

 do so. The moose love to feed in this way in the hot 

 months, when they spend all the time they can in the 

 water, feeding or lying down ; nor do they altogether 

 abandon the habit even when the weather is so cold that 

 icicles form in their shaggy coats. 



Crouching, I stole noiselessly along the edge of the wil- 

 low thicket. The stream twisted through it from side to side 

 in zigzags, so that every few rods I got a glimpse down a 

 lane of black water. In a minute I heard a slight splash- 

 ing near me ; and on passing the next point of bushes, I 

 saw the shadowy outline of the moose's hindquarters, 

 standing in a bend of the water. In a moment he walked 

 onwards, disappearing. I ran forward a couple of rods, 

 and then turned in amono- the willows, to reach the brook 

 where it again bent back towards me. The splashing in 

 the water, and the rustling of the moose's body against 

 the frozen twigs, drowned the little noise made by my 

 moccasined feet. 



I strode out on the bank at the lower end of a long 

 narrow pool of water, dark and half frozen. In this pool, 

 half way down and facing me, but a score of yards off, 

 stood the mighty marsh beast, strange and uncouth in 

 look as some monster surviving over from the Pliocene. 

 His vast bulk loomed black and vague in the dim gray 

 dawn ; his huge antlers stood out sharply ; columns of 

 steam rose from his nostrils. For several seconds he 



