Outguessing a Bull 



A THOUGH my camp is in the heart of a very 

 fine moose country, working unconsciously on 

 the theory that " the fishing is always better on 

 the other side of the brook," I have invariably gone 

 several miles from camp to do my moose-hunting, 

 usually by canoe or motor-boat, to some point near the 

 shore of Lake Rossignol or its tributaries. 



I do not suppose there is another place in North 

 America where one can see so many fine moose and heads 

 assembled as at Lowe's Landing, where the wagon road 

 from Caledonia terminates. 



On several occasions moose have been shot near the 

 camp, but I was always under the impression that the 

 continued hilarity and practice-shooting of hunting- 

 parties, either before going out or coming in, would be 

 detrimental to attempts to call moose or to seriously 

 hunt them anywhere near the buildings. 



On October 19, 1918, with one companion, I rolled 

 into camp with the car about 5 p.m. Just as we arrived 

 a single horse and truck-wagon were leaving the landing 

 for Caledonia with a fine moose. After opening up the 

 cabin I picked up a moose call from the mantel over the 

 fireplace and stepped out on the front porch. The 

 evening was beautiful; the sun, a ball of fire in the west. 

 It was dead calm and going to be frosty. I put the 

 birch-bark megaphone to my lips and called once. The 

 imitation notes of a cow moose rang out over the woods 

 and lake, echoing and re-echoing for miles. The echo 

 had hardly died down, when I heard a bull speak from 



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