and the Maritime Provinces. 267 



evening, it is that of still-hunting a moose on the snow. Let me try and 

 describe them both as they have happened in my observation. 



I was hunting in the Little river country with another amateur friend. 

 I had learned from a past-master in the art how to imitate the call of the 

 cow moose. We were sitting on a log at the foot of a long, narrow deadwater 

 just as the sun was disappearing in the west. Several times I called with- 

 out result. Then I heard a distant sound away on the barren hills to the 

 north that resembled the stroke of an axe at the root of a rotten tree. It 

 was very faint at first but again and again it was repeated, each time louder 

 and clearer than before. My companion, not hearing the sound, started 

 to make a remark to the effect that we had better make for camp before it 

 got too dark. " Hush " ! I whispered, " don't you hear the moose ? He 's 

 coming right along, and we '11 attend his funeral, sure " ! 



At first my friend did not detect the answering note, but as it became 

 louder and nearer he became convinced of the reality and prepared for 

 action. " Wuh ! Wuh ! Wuh ! Wuh " ! The sound came down the hillside 

 till the fading sunset and the spiral wreaths of mist that rose from the still 

 cold surface of the pond seemed tremulous with impending tragedy. 

 Louder and louder yet came the response as we stood there motionless as 

 statues with our rifles ready for the fray. Even the steps of the unseen 

 monster can now be heard as he picks his way through the boggy margin 

 that surrounds the head of the pond, and pushes his horns through the 

 intervening branches. 



Suddenly all is as silent as the grave. He is standing in the alders 

 at the head of the pond and listening and seeking for the scent with all his 

 might. He is a wary old bull and has been tricked before, or else a spike 

 bull who means to take no chance of being shovelled ignominiously into 

 the pond by a bigger rival. 



I raise the birchen horn and give the most seductive, plaintive call 

 that I can evoke from the instrument. The moose responds with a hesi- 

 tating "Wuh! Wuh"! and takes a cautious step in advance. This is 

 repeated half a dozen times, and at last he has located himself in the alders 

 not more than sixty yards from our position. There he stands, silent and 

 motionless, while the golden light dies out of the west and the pallid Octo- 

 ber moon spreads her mystic radiance like a mantle over barren hill and 

 pond. No effort of mine can coax him from his dark retreat. Not once 

 have we caught a glimpse of his huge body as he has advanced through 

 the alders down the bank of the pond. I try the ancient trick of pouring 

 water from the horn, but I should have done that before, for he is now sus- 

 picious and means to take no chances. Will he never come out of that 

 jungle of alders ? Are we going to lose him after all ? 



At last we hear a rustling in the thicket that betokens a change of 



