515 
November, 
1921 
caribou, and, above all, the great big 
out-of-doors. 
T HE balance of the two weeks passed 
all too soon. Each day we searched 
the bogs for caribou, or, concealed, 
watched the moose and deer feed and 
disport in their native haunts. 
The caribou were coming down into 
the “green timber” to winter. We saw 
many fresh tracks where singly, or in 
pairs, or in herds, they had passed from 
one feeding-ground to another. It is 
useless for a hunter to try to overtake 
the “roving caribou.” The guides tell 
us that they travel as much as sixty 
miles in a day. So while many caribou 
passed through our territory we did not 
happen to be in the right place at the 
right time, and neither of us got a shot. 
One morning in the second week Jack 
and I were visiting Big Bog in search 
of caribou as usual. Crossing the bog 
we saw, back of a little island, a moose 
feeding. His legs and part of his body 
were submerged in the mire. While we 
were watching him a cow and bull calf 
entered the bog from the opposite side 
going toward the island. I stepped close 
to Jack that we might be the less con- 
spicuous on that treeless swamp. The 
cow and calf saw us and stopped. It 
was interesting to watch that mother and 
her son sweep the air with-their noses, 
cock their big ears forward and look 
long and intently to try to determine if 
danger lurked in connection with the ob- 
jects in the swamp. 
Presently the feeding bull saw the cow 
and started toward her and us. The 
cow slipped along until she had the 
island interposed between her and the 
bull, then ducked and ran, the calf at 
her heels. The bull came across the 
point of the island where he had last 
seen the cow, and we observed that he 
had lost one horn. 
The wind was blowing strongly from 
the northwest, nearly directly from the 
bull to us. Immediately back of us the 
morning sun, in all his October splendor, 
had just risen above the horizon. Jack 
had the birch-bark horn to his lips. He 
gave the call and that bull started toward 
us on a dead run. Over he came, 
splashing through the black muck, in 
which any domestic animal must surely 
have floundered and perished. 
As he reached the firmer section of 
the bog near us he stopped. We were 
motionless as statues; Jack with the horn 
to his lips and I with the safety off my 
rifle, ready to clap it to my shoulder 
should an emergency arise. The bull was 
looking squarely into the sun and could 
not scent us. He stood awhile motion- 
less. Jack gave the whine of the cow 
and he came on slowly, grunting his 
affection. Another whine and he crept 
up closer. He was now not more than 
fifty feet away. He looked grotesque 
with but one antler, and as there was 
not a twig between him and us it was 
an easy matter to count the five tines on 
the remaining antler. I could all but 
count his eyelashes, and oh, how I wished 
for the camera ! 
As the wind was still strong, blowing 
from him to us, he could not hear the 
whispered conversation. “What shall I 
do with him?” said Jack. It occurred to 
me that in every battle since losing his 
F 
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