if! m 



MOOSE-CALLINQ. 113 & 



morning passed, and we niiglit come on them at any {;! 



moment. We now travelled witli great caution ; any I 



little blunder committed, sucli as a slight snap caused ' ^j 



by stepping on a rotten stick, or grnzing a gun-barrel '^ 



against a tree-stem, was invested with a plausible ap- ;;« 



pearance by the Indian, who would innnediately apply jj' 



the call to his lips, and utter a h)W grunt, as it were a / 



moose Widking throunjh tlie woods. At last the forest > 



opened ahead, the gloom of the pini'S gave place to '•il 



briglitcr light, and we stood on the e<lge of the barren '-' 



sought for. Below us lay the swamp through which we [^ 



had followed the moose, and we had the satisfaction of .-■ 



seeing, on crossing the stagnant brook which separated it : 



from our present position, the mud still circling where the 

 animals had passed. Tliey had just crossed it before us, ■ 



and taken to the barren. 



The barren, which was at some elevation al)ove the 

 swampy forest we had recently quitted, sloped from us 

 in an undulating wilderness of tangled brakes and dead 

 trees, whose tall, bleached forms reared themKelves like 

 ghosts in the fiist approaching twilight. It was quite 

 calm — a delightful evening for "calling" — and we dis- 

 encumbered ourselves of the loads, and sat down in the 

 bushes to smoke and converse in low tones until the 

 moon should rise and meUow the twilight. 



CD 



Everything was perfectly still, except the occasional 

 tap of the woodpecker on the decayed trunk of some 

 distant rampike. As the sun sank below the horizon, 

 the gentle breeze gradually diminished, and now not a 

 leaf on the poplar and maple bushes around us flutters. ; 



" Now, John," I whispered to the Indian, " it is almost 1 



time to try your voice. We will make the moose hear 



t 



