Moose Calling. 127 



caller. Under tuition of my Indian (who was him- 

 self a rather poor hand at it) I had practised two or 

 three times till he told me, with charming frankness, 

 that possibly a man might mistake me for a moose, 

 if he had n't heard one very often. So here was a 

 chance for more practice and a bit of variety. If it 

 frightened her it would do no harm, as we were not 

 hunting. 



Running the canoe quietly ashore below where the 

 moose had called, I peeled the bark from a young 

 birch, rolled it into a trumpet, and, standing on the 

 grassy bank, uttered the deep grunt of a bull two 

 or three times in quick succession. The effect was 

 tremendous. From the summit of the ridge, not 

 two hundred yards above where I stood, the angry 

 challenge of a bull was hurled down upon me out 

 of the woods. Then it seemed as if a steam engine 

 were crashing full speed through the underbrush. 

 In fewer seconds than it takes to write it the canoe 

 was well out into deep water, lying motionless with 

 the bow inshore. A moment later a huge bull plunged 

 through the fringe of alders onto the open bank, 

 gritting his teeth, grunting, stamping the earth sav- 

 agely, and thrashing the bushes with his great antlers 

 — as ugly a picture as one would care to meet in 

 the woods. 



He seemed bewildered at not seeing his rival, ran 



