MY FIRST BULL-MOOSE 75 



was yet young, my guide and myself paddled noise- 

 lessly out of the lake, on which we were camped, and 

 into the twisting and beautiful stretch of dead-water 

 that feeds the lake and which is about two miles long. 

 The guide took up his birch-bark horn and ran a little 

 water through it, following up this preliminary by 

 spitting vigorously first on the one side of the canoe 

 and then on the other. I didn't then, nor do I now 

 see the necessity for the expectorating part of his pro- 

 gram, but I hear that all professional moose-callers 

 invariably go through it and therefore I suppose it 

 must be a necessary part of the performance. This 

 prelude being over, the guide put the horn to his lips 

 and gave the famous moose call so often described 

 and yet never described. We sat listening to its 

 tremulous notes quivering on the air and when they 

 died away in the silence we waited impatiently for an 

 answer. Our waiting was fruitless. Save the hoot- 

 ing of an owl or the splash of a muskrat, there came 

 no sound to break the grave-like stillness. Again the 

 guide gave the call and again we waited. Hark ! a 

 crackling of alders now greeted our ears. The sound 

 came from a long distance up stream and told us that 

 a creature of some sort was approaching. A little 

 later we heard a crashing on our left, but no grunting, 

 no barking to indicate that a bull-moose was any- 

 where in the neighborhood. We strained our ears for 

 a sound that would give us a cue to the sort of animal 



