144 Trails to Woods and Waters 



was thrust in the mud. My companion 

 rested the larger end of the moose call on the 

 bow of the canoe, took a deep breath, puffed 

 out his cheek like the unfortunate man who 

 plays the bass tuba in the band, and a deep 

 chested bellow echoed across the lake. First, 

 it was low keyed and uncertain, like the rum- 

 ble of distant thunder, but as the sound rose 

 in pitch it swelled in volume, filling the forest 

 and echoing along the lake. Finally, it died 

 away in an uncertain wail, like the bellow of a 

 cow who is calling for the calf that the man in 

 the blue frock has just loaded into the wagon 

 and driven away with. 



We waited and listened, but only the cries 

 of night birds reached our ears. Again the 

 guide flung this deep chested bellow, that I 

 do not see how human lungs can produce, 

 across the lake, and we waited and listened. 

 This time it was answered, faint and far, but 

 still it was an answering call, and that was 

 more than we had heard before. 



Again the guide called, this time putting 

 more of defiance than of entreaty into the 



