LETTER XIX. 219 



(a black one) has been digging his claws in, and 

 stretching himself after a square meal of rasp- 

 berries. Half a dozen times before eight o'clock 

 we came upon ' white-tail ' tracks, leading always 

 into the thickest of the balsam-woods. They 

 look very fresh and tempting ; but we are not 

 after white-tail to-day. Just as the hands of my 

 watch point to 8 a.m., my Indian and I stop 

 simultaneously, and my heart begins to go several 

 beats per minute faster than it has done hitherto, 

 for there, right across the track, are the great 

 hoof-prints of a bull moose, fresh, of course, for 

 the snow has hardly ceased falling. Without a 

 word, Jocko turns into the hard-wood, and for 

 an hour neither of us speaks, but both plod on, 

 following yard for yard where the bull has gone. 

 Every moment I expected to see the great spread- 

 ing palms of his antlers or his huge misshapen 

 bulk moving slowly before us, nibbling the tender 

 tops of birch or willow. 



From the top of every hard-wood hill we look 

 to see him lying down, a brown mass, in the snow, 

 resting after his night's tramp. But no. One 

 hard- wood hill after another is climbed and left 

 behind ; one belt of balsam after another pene- 

 trated and passed through, and still the great 

 tracks lead on, with no sign of resting or weari- 

 ness. At last Jocko stops and draws down the 



