January, 1920 
FOREST AND STREAM 
31 
Chipman, New Brunswick, by way of 
Boston and St. Johns, and many an ant- 
lered beauty came to destruction in the 
smoking room of that train as we sped 
along, and I was filled with a feeling of 
keen impatience to be out and at it. 
On arrival at Chipman I went to the 
King Lumber Company’s office and met 
Martin Farriher who showed me around 
the little town and introduced me to 
some of its leading citizens. He then 
recommended a well-known guide named 
Arnold Lackey who finally decided to 
take me in. 
The same afternoon we drove to Arn- 
old’s house where I spent the night in a 
big feather bed and enjoyed to the full 
the good old-fashioned Canadian hos- 
pitality. The next morning (Thursday) 
a tent and provisions sufficient for a 
week were loaded on the wagon and we 
started on our fifteen mile trip to the 
grounds, Arnold led the way, cleaning 
up saplings and cutting around fallen 
trees with his big double-bitted axe, on 
the old trail to McKeen’s brook. 
It was wonderful the way the team 
struggled through the swampy places 
and forded the streams, and how the 
wagon held together was a marvel. The 
famous road to Dublin would be smootn 
going compared to this. 
Several partridges were flushed on the 
way in, as they have become very plenti- 
ful, due to several years’ protection. I 
understand the close season will be lifted 
in the near future, which 'will certainly 
make some excellent bird shooting. 
We pitched camp on the bank of Mc- 
Keen’s brook, and the same afternoon 
decided to look the country over. 
We headed for the nearest heath, 
which lay three miles to the north of us, 
and on the way saw plenty of moose 
tracks, but most of them proved to be 
a week or more old. 
The following morning before day- 
light Arnold roused me from a deep 
sleep on the fragrant balsam bed and I 
was conscious that a drizzling rain was 
in progress, making anything but a 
■cheerful outlook for the day. When I 
objected to the interruption and pre- 
pared for some more sleep, Arnold said, 
“If you want to play the game you’ve 
got to get up.” 
I realized then that a man must be 
willing to go through any kind of hard- 
ship if he hopes to get one of the big 
fellows. 
All that day we tramped through the 
woods and heaths and at noon, while 
stopping for lunch, Arnold gave the call 
through his birch-bark horn. 
The setting was perfect. A little 
clearing beside a tumbling brook, with 
here and there an alder bush wilted and 
torn by the rough handling of a fiery 
bull. Hardly had the echoes died away 
when we heard on the still noon air 
a deep staccato grunt several times re- 
peated. It was a bull moose. To one 
who has never heard the sound I can 
hardly describe the sensation it pro- 
duced. We were in the domain of the 
Lord of the Forest and might be called 
upon at any moment to dispute his su- 
premacy in his forest kingdom. 
The bull failed to show himself, how- 
ever, as they are apt to stay in one spot 
and rest during the middle of the day, 
and we returned to camp without seeing 
anything. 
I was pretty tired and asked Arnold 
how far we had travelled, and he said 
it was at least fifteen miles, this, in my 
opinion, being equal to thirty on the 
road. Any sportsman who has sunk to 
his knees on a Canadian heath will know 
what I mean. 
That night in camp I remarked that 
I had a feeling we would get meat on the 
morrow. Arnold was not very optimis- 
tic, but said he hoped I was right. 
The next morning (Saturday) we 
went to a beaver pond situated several 
miles down the brook, which was con- 
sidered a likely spot, as the moose is 
very fond of the pond-lily roots, and can 
sometimes be approached unseen while 
feeding. 
We failed to get any sight of moose, 
but I was surprised to see the dam, about 
100 feet long and fully ten feet wide 
at the bottom, which these tireless work- 
ers had built. 
A worthy trophy 
Walking safely across the dam we 
turned our steps toward the Gaspereau 
River, a tributary of the St. John’s. 
The river presented a very beautiful 
appearance, its banks rising uncommon- 
ly high and steep as compared to the 
rest of the surrounding country. 
Late in the afternoon, while returning, 
we stopped at the edge of a heath for a 
short rest before covering the last three 
miles to a good dinner and a sound sleep. 
The shadows of the spruces were 
slowly lengthening on the heath and the 
deep silence was broken only by the 
whirr of wings now and then as a part- 
ridge sought his roosting place. 
It was the time of times for a call, 
and the plaintive long-drawn cry of the 
cow fl-m+ed out on the silence. As the 
horn was lowered the deep grunt of a 
bull sounded somewhere in the thickets 
back of us, but to all our further coax- 
ing he paid no attention. 
As night was approaching we reluc- 
tantly struck the home trail, stopping 
now and then for a low call. Occasion- 
ally a branch cracked off on the right, 
and it seemed to us that something was 
cautiously traveling abreast of us. Per- 
haps half the distance to camp had been 
covered, and as we splashed and stum- 
bled along the narrow tote-path over- 
hung with limbs and alders, Arnold sud- 
denly stopped and pointed ahead. 
There, in the path, thirty feet in front 
of us, was a big black object standing 
perfectly still. 
For a moment we, too, stood motion- 
less, and then, as I pushed over the 
safety on my rifle and moved forward 
we heard an angry snort and the rattle 
of big horns in the branches. 
Then I was sure that the big moment 
had come. 
Kneeling down to get a better view in 
the dim light under the overhanging 
alders, I saw quite distinctly, about 
twenty feet away, the crotch of his fore- 
legs. Aiming between the legs, I raised 
the rifle so as to hit him full in the 
chest, and fired. With loud snorts and 
the crashing of branches the big ani- 
mal lunged sideways, and hardly real- 
izing the danger, and only fearful of 
losing him, I stepped forward and fired 
again at the white patch in front of his 
hip. He fell on his hind quarters, and 
was just struggling up again when I 
stepped still closer and put the third 
shot behind his shoulder without sight- 
ing at all. 
Then he fell for the last time, and af- 
ter waving his big head around a few 
times, it dropped forward and he was 
dead. 
Fifty inches, twenty-one points, and 
weighing fully twelve hundred, he made 
what is termed in Canadian “a good big 
junk of a moose.” 
In the years tq come as I sit and view 
the head hanging from the wall, the 
lapse of time will be but a small ob- 
stacle to my vivid recollection of that 
night on McKeen’s brook with Arnold 
and the Moose. 
Norman F. Nelson, New York. 
FROM A NORTHWESTERN 
CORRESPONDENT 
To the Editor of Forest and Stream: 
I AM much amused at the arguments 
pro and con as regards length of barrel 
and 20 gauges. Unfortunately, perhaps, 
I am one df the poor men who have 
pinned their faith on a 20 gauge, and as 
for length of barrel, ye gods, I selected 
twenty-four inches. Already I hear a 
groan from the benighted brethren who 
stick to a long barreled twelve to kill 
anything from a pewee to a goose. I 
have owned this little gun for some 
eight years, and have shot it on the wav- 
ing prairies of Illinois, the saw-grass 
and palmetto of Florida and the mighty 
forests of Washington, and have never 
yet regretted the discarding of my 12 
gauge. As to killing power I think 
squirrel shooting is as good a test as any. 
Now, the mathematical chaps may figure 
out just how many less shot I will hit 
him with, and with how much less 
velocity, but the squirrel comes down 
just as dead or a little bit deader thaD 
