STILL-HUNTING 



three handfuls of dry sticks the sportsman went 

 down to the brook to fill the tea pail, and he 

 agreed that the track of the moose where it crossed 

 was several hours old. 



Dinner caused a delay of thirty minutes per- 

 haps, and the men resumed the trail across the 

 little brook. ... I am not at liberty to print 

 what the guide said when he had gone thirty 

 yards or so up the other bank. Not that it was 

 confidential — it was merely unprintable. For that 

 track three or four hours old was crossed by 

 another hardly an hour old, showing that the 

 moose had made one of his frequent loops, and, 

 crossing his own track, had lain down for a noon- 

 day siesta less than a hundred yards from where 

 the miserable fire of the dinner camp had sent 

 out its notice to everything in the neighboring 

 woods that men were abroad. There was the 

 bed in the snow, and there were the long strides 

 of the frightened fugitive leading from it. But 

 we never saw that moose. 



Eternal vigilance is the price of moose steak. 

 We didn't pay the price, and we didn't get the 

 steak. The guide's attempt at consolation by 

 concluding that it was only a cow moose, after all, 

 reminded me merely of the fox's opinion that the 

 inaccessible grapes were not sweet enough to eat 



