3*6 



or even a spike-horn to say "how 

 d'ye do." 



Fifty minutes had gone by when 

 a noise like the snapping of a twig 

 in the woods sent an electric thrill 

 of tensest listening along the canoe. 

 But we heard no more. Doubtless 

 a bull had drawn near, also listening, 

 not quite sure, perhaps the voice was 

 a little strange. 



Nimrod raised another call and 

 we distinctly heard a big animal 

 getting away as fast as it could. 

 That last call certainly had not been 

 right. It might have been too close 

 to the other, or it needed an addi- 

 tional note, or not so much, or was 

 too loud. Undoubtedly in some way 

 moose etiquette had been violated. 



The day had come and with it 

 the necessity of another kind of 

 hunting the stalk. Quietly, as ever, 

 we landed, turned the canoe bottom 

 up, for it was beginning to rain, 

 and searched about for the track of 

 our fugitive moose. Not that there 

 was any hope of seeing him, for he 

 would go miles before Stopping, but 

 for information, a natural desire to 

 know his size. When we found it, 



