Resurrection 



we had left the canoe. It was noon, finally, when we 

 found it fiat upon its belly, midstream in a brook. It 

 had sunk down in a trotting position, with one foot out 

 ahead and one behind, and muzzle reaching out like the 

 head of a racehorse going under the wire. It was dead. 



I can never remember being so glad to see a moose — 

 before or since. 



Upon dressing and skinning the carcass, we found that 

 Joe's knife-stroke had missed the jugular vein, but had 

 cut the windpipe. The moose had swallowed all the 

 blood, and had run a mile and a half in this condition. 

 My bullet had missed the neck-bone. 



Joe carried the head and about ten pounds of meat. 

 I tied up the slippery hide and struggled along with that. 

 Going through the bog, it seemed to me that Joe skipped 

 right along over the top of it like a feather, while I sank 

 to my knees at every step. Sometimes it's an advantage 

 to have great big feet ! 



When we reached the tents with the prima facie 

 evidence of our hunt, the only part of our adventure 

 that any of the others would take the least stock in was 

 that we had killed a moose. I sent three guides and Old 

 Joe to carry out the four quarters of the meat. 



Joe adds appreciably to his reputation every time he 

 tells the story of the moose that vamosed after being shot 

 and having his throat cut. 



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