448 
fear would surmount his curiosity, he would 
whirl and disappear in the darkness. Or 
on rare occasions the moose would advance 
to investigate, in which case we lost no 
time in backing into deep water. Occasion- 
ally it has been an old cow moose and her 
calf, the grotesque, funny form of the latter 
sharply outlined in the jack’s light. It 
would stand and stare and stare, while the 
mother would rush out on the bank and 
move about in nervous apprehension, de- 
ploring, begging, beseeching, in her moose 
way, for her offspring to follow, to leave 
this strange, insoluble mystery that fright- 
ened, yet fascinated. 
The calling of moose and jacking at 
night are both interesting in their way, and 
well worth the trouble for the glimpses of 
wild life one gets, but it is not sport; at 
least, not as I interpret the word. The sport 
comes later. 
When clear, cold, frosty nights, the fore- 
runners of winter, have clipped the trees of 
their foliage and carpeted the forest against 
winter’s blast; when the first white mantle 
is spread over all, softening the carpet of 
leaves, so the foot falls silent, the sport 
begins. The tingling cold of early morning 
wakens your sluggish blood to action. You 
feel born with new energy. Now you are 
ready to pursue the moose, knowing that 
he stands on equal footing. Now it is a 
matter of your knowledge, your skill, your 
endurance, your man’s all, against his 
sagacity, cunning, sharp eyes, keen ears, 
instinct, his animal’s all, and when the hunt 
is over and you win, you take home a well- 
deserved, well-earned trophy, which in all 
after years is a pleasure, an object to call 
up fond memory. 
Of such a chase I would tell. All fall we 
had camped where the sight of a moose was 
a daily occurrence. We had come to feel 
that we would but have to take our choice 
of the big antlers we saw around us. But 
somehow things changed while we waited 
for the open season. The rut was several 
weeks past; a suspicion of winter’s advent 
was in the air; the moose had gone to the 
ridges and rocks. With everything in 
readiness we awaited the first snow to still 
the leaves. It came the second day of the 
open season, and an ideal storm it was, 
falling thick and fast till three inches 
RECREATION 
covered the ground; not enough to impede 
progress, and still enough for ideal tracking. 
The morning of the third day broke clear, 
and the sun’s first rays found us off through 
the forest for the high lands. With a 
blanket apiece and week’s rations we were 
prepared to camp on the trail. All day we 
trudged along, seeing occasional signs of a 
cow or a yearling, but nothing of the lord 
we sought. At nightfall we made camp in 
a grove of maples, with as little commotion _ 
as possible and a tiny fire, just big enough 
to boil water for tea, and ate our supper. 
Precaution is absolutely necessary when on 
the trail after moose, for noise carries far, — 
the smoke from a big fire carries farther, 
and your big moose, once suspicious or 
alarmed, will light out at a ten-miles-an- 
hour clip that will soon carry him out of the 
country. With little ado we took to our 
blankets and sleep. I had been asleep for 
some hours when I awoke with a start. 
What woke me I could not tell, but I had 
a vague feeling of nervousness, an admoni- 
tion of some presence; I lay perfectly still, 
though searching out the underbrush as far 
as my glance would reach. Looking up- 
ward I soon made out, on a limb about 
twenty feet away, the outline of an animal, 
then the tiniest gleam of green, and I 
recognized a lynx. I was not afraid, yet an 
uncanny feeling crept through me, as I lay 
watching this haunter of the gloom, who, 
crouched unstirringly, seemed a malevolent 
spirit. How long I watched him I don’t 
know, for I soon drifted back to sleep. 
When day broke I would have sworn it was 
a dream, but for the material evidence of 
tracks. 
Shortly after daylight we were started. 
‘We had been pushing along probably an 
hour, when we struck the trail, not over an 
hour old, of a big moose. Then was 
awakened in us that something which lies 
dormant, imperceptible, a something which 
makes man akin to the savage, to the animal 
of prey. No longer do we think of the 
pursued as a moose, or a deer, or a bear, 
but rather the embodiment of an elusive 
end, the consummation of an eager ambition, 
an unfathomable desire that draws us on 
to face dangers, hardships and privations 
until we accomplish the one great end. 
And so it was when we struck the trail of 
