ghost he disappeared. The guide — a French Canadian — 

 said : ' ' Vat you shoot at ?' " "A bull-moose, ' ' I replied , 

 "Didn't you see him?" "No, I no see him !" "Well," 

 I said, "we'll lake up his trail and see if he's hit." 

 "You no hit him," he answered disdainfully. 



We tramped around trying to find his tracks without 



much hope of seeing the tell-tale drops of blood, for the 



bog was soft and the feet of the moose left no mark as he 



ran, and the red moss that covered the bog prevented the 



blood — if there was any — from showing on it. We finally 



worked out of the bog on the ground leading up to a 



ridge, and making careful search as we walked, found at 



last, a drop of fresh, hot blood on a leaf; then a little 



further on a pool of l)lood that would have filled a bucket. 



This blood was mixed with the pink tissue of the lungs, 



showing plainly that the bullet had gone through that 



organ of his anatomy. I now proposed to spot the trees 



so that we could find the place again, then go back to 



camp and give the moose a chance to lie down and bleed 



to death. My French Canadian, with a whiff of his old 



clay pipe, gave it as his opinion that the bull was mortally 



wounded, that we'd find him in a few minutes and advised 



that we follow him at once. We did so, finding no 



difficulty whatever, in tracking him, as his trail wr.s 



almost a continuous stream of blood, excepting when his 



wound would apparently become clogged with a piece of 



the pink tissue, and then for a few yards we would lose 



his trail, but only for a few yards, for soon the gushing 



blood would spurt its passage through, forming another 



pool. And thus we followed on, over ridges and through 



swamps and l^ogs, hoping soon to catch a sight of our 



128 



