Resurrection 



guides and other wild animals have a capacity for perform- 

 ing seemingly impossible stunts. The following adventure 

 is only one of many that go to strengthen this impression : 



One bright October morning, a few years ago, Joe and 

 I were sitting on top of the big Indian lookout rock on 

 the edge of Kempton's Bog, in the Lake Rossignol district 

 of Nova Scotia. We had been moose calling. As a 

 fresh breeze had sprung up, Joe said it was no use to call 

 any more, since if a bull were within earshot he would work 

 around to leeward of us, get our scent, and run away before 

 coming within our range of vision. Being young and no 

 respecter of sylvan traditions, I picked up the call, and 

 essaying a near imitation of a cow in distress, sent a sound 

 that was a cross between a whine and a moo waveringly 

 over the bog. 



Then impossibilities began to happen. My inexperi- 

 ence in moose calling must have imparted something 

 of its essence to my plaint, and impressed the big bull 

 that immediately answered with the idea that there was 

 in the vicinity a poor little ingenue, patently in need of 

 a large and strong protector. That's where I had Old 

 Joe. He was too much of an old-timer, and his call 

 denoted too much worldly wisdom to attract any philan- 

 dering and blase old bull. The big moose trotted right 

 down the wind and stuck its head out of a bunch of pine, 

 hardly fifty steps from where we crouched on the rim of 

 the rock. I fired one shot from my old 30-U.S.A., and 

 the bull dropped in his tracks. As he didn't kick nor 

 move, Joe and I clambered down to look him over. My 

 bullet had struck him just behind the left ear, and passing 

 diagonally down through the neck, had come out just 

 ahead of the right shoulder. 



" Good boy !" exclaimed Joe. 



To celebrate the occasion, I took a silver flask out of 

 my pocket and gave Joe a drink. While I was taking mine, 



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