302 TWO DIANAS IN ALASKA 



turned in a flurried circle, then fled pell-mell into the 

 embracing underbrush, away and away from the zone 

 of danger. 



Next evening Cecily and I, with Pitka in attend- 

 ance, took an excursion around the lake, keeping to 

 the banks, often crossing tracts of ground which gave 

 way beneath us, and precipitated us over our knees 

 in water. Here and there green rushes, undisturbed 

 in all the centuries, formed great ramparts across our 

 way, necessitating a big detour. The lagoon was 

 wreathed in the white gossamer mists of autumn, 

 through which the busy ducks sped and winged their 

 flight to and fro, hither and thither, in chattering 

 concert arranging for the exodus to other shores. Such 

 activity presaged bad weather. When ducks are un- 

 usually conversational the barometer is falling. 



In the soft hush of the evening, and the clean, sweet 

 smell of the wilderness, we climbed a mossy bank and 

 lay down, overlooking a piece of water to which ran 

 many recent moose trails. The creatures seek the 

 lakes and rivers to get away from the persistent flies 

 and myriad biting gnats, and stand for long minutes 

 in deep water for protection. The moose flies were 

 present with us in force, even Pitka was troubled by 

 the onslaughts, and cast his much tattered coat from 

 him as though it were a shirt of Nessus. The insects 

 got beneath it, he said, and made matters unbearable. 

 Suddenly, everything happens suddenly in big game 

 shooting, a cow moose loomed on our limited horizon, 

 some three hundred yards away, unwieldy and in- 

 elegant, a tiny calf, with huge ears for so small a 



