CALLING THE MOOSE 27 



the bush. I have myself heard him answer a call 

 while engaged in his protective duty and then make a 

 start, which in this instance was for two miles ; but 

 the loving voice of the real moose arrested the 

 wanderer and brought him back to the family bosom. 

 I heard and saw all this, — saw him approach the 

 water, step into it and splash it with his feet, mean- 

 while looking cautiously around as if he scented 

 danger in the air. And there was danger, and a good 

 deal of it. In the front of a canoe sat a hunter with 

 rifle ready cocked, and heart throbbing with thumps 

 that threatened to burst the buttons off his coat. A 

 moment of breathless suspense, and then bang ! goes 

 the 45-90 cartridge, the report sounding and resound- 

 ing through the woods and over the waters for miles 

 around. There was another bang and yet another. 

 Whether the uncertain light or the uncertainty of the 

 hunter's aim, due to his sitting for hours still as a 

 mouse and in an atmosphere with the thermometer at 

 freezing point, had anything to do with the result, I 

 can't say. But I can say that the moose escaped un- 

 harmed — untouched by the bullet that might have 

 forever put an end to his midnight prowlings and Don 

 Juanish intrigues. 



The sport of moose hunting is one that requires a 

 great deal of patience and perseverance from the 

 hunter, and under such trying difficulties as exposure 

 to cold and loss of sleep. But his reward is ample — 



