goes through nature at this hour in our 
North Woods. It is a grand moose-call- 
ing morning. Not a breath of air stirs. 
A short walk through the frozen hard- 
backs and over the mossy ground and we 
are again in our blind. The guide has 
brought your sleeping bag and you sit 
upon it and take an easy position. Let 
us listen a little while and try to hear 
our bulls we located last night before 
we try the call. Presently the east be- 
gins to pale and soon we distinguish ob- 
jects. How weird things loom up! You 
can almost swear that old upturned root 
at which you have been gazing so intent- 
ly is the head of a bull moose. It certain- 
ly seems to move! The longer one 
watches an object in poor light the more 
it looks alive. Presently the rising sun 
makes everything clear. The day is born. 
Your guide picks up his horn and, facing 
in the direction of the long swamp where 
we heard the nearest bull last night, and 
with studied care he breathes through 
the birch bark to warm it as he fits his 
mouth to the slender end. No musician 
ever takes greater care preparatory to 
the performance of a difficult solo 
through his wind instrument than the 
guide does as he makes ready for the 
first call. Each hand has to be placed 
just right. Lips about the muzzle exact- 
ly to suit the. performer. You note each 
move as you hold your breath for the 
challenge, thinking at the time what a 
pity to disturb the deathly silence. Low- 
ering his call towards the ground and 
again raising it, out goes the long quav- 
ering mating call, splitting the frozen air 
as it caroms from rock to swamp and up 
against the ridges. A masterly perform- 
ance it is! All again is silence. You 
wonder if ever you could learn to imitate 
it. Listening more intently than ever 
now, you can distinguish the rumble of 
a brook in the distance, swelling, dying, 
swelling. If your guide should tell you 
that the tiny brook you stepped over yes- 
terday was making all that noise and 
fuss you would not credit it. Far within 
the virgin forest here, you miss the song 
birds. But there are birds and here come 
the robins in flocks, lighting upon the 
dead pine trees, leisurely migrating 
south, loth to leave behind the luscious 
blue-berries which grow nowhere so lux- 
uriously as in this barren wilderness. 
Yes, here are some flickers migrating 
along with the robins. These birds seem 
to be great friends and travel south to- 
gether in perfect harmony. A moose 
bird (Canadian Jay), the bird of many 
names, flits from pine-top to pine-top 
with slow, lazy, noiseless flight. Quack- 
ing of black ducks we hear over in the 
rushy lake, some half mile away, sound- 
ing, in the clear thin air, as if close by. 
Suddenly a sparrow hawk shoots into 
sight, causing much commotion among 
the robins and flickers which dart hither 
and thither with frightened screech. All 
disappearing over the nearby knoll and 
again there is perfect silence. You are 
admiring the myriads of spider webs 
stretched from twig to twig and from 
stunted spruce tops. The sun’s rays 
bringing every minute thread into relief 
as they glisten on the frosted nets. Bog, 
bushes and tree tops are festooned with, 
the wonderful network. The very surest 
indication that the day will be fine. 
Twenty minutes have passed since the 
guide shattered the silence with his birch 
call and again he sends forth the plead- 
ing imitation of an amorous cow. Just 
as he takes his seat beside you and al- 
most before the sound of horn and echo 
in conjunction have died away, the an- 
swer comes. Bur-wah’, ka-buck! Louder 
and louder sounds the answer. Straight 
for us comes the bull, grunting at every 
step. Suddenly the answers, that have 
sounded so welcome, stop. Not a sound 
can we hear. You begin to wonder what 
has become of the bull. And so we sit 
for some time (hours you think) with 
straining ears. Like a pistol shot a 
limb breaks. “That’s him,” the guide 
whispers, and then with low, contented 
grunts, keeping time with every stride, 
on he comes. Hear his antlers drag the 
bushes? Striking one upon a dead pine 
it echoes loud and hollow — indicating 
palms of generous width. 
Something now seems to interfere with 
your sense of hearing! It is the blood 
pounding in your ears. The nearer your 
moose comes the colder you get. Shivers 
The end of the call 
run and play all over you. Your throat 
is dry but you try in vain to swallow. 
Presently your eyes catch the twitch of 
a maple-top and at the same time the 
glimpse of a yellowish antler. You can. 
now hear the “swish,” “swish” of the 
hard hacks, as long legs are thrust 
through them. A big black form comes 
slowly into sight, out from the point on 
our right. The moose takes a few strides 
into the open and away from the friendly 
shade of the bushes, smells an old moose 
trail that winds across the meadow and, 
raising his heavy antlered head, looks 
towards jmu. His reckoning is up. Just 
to keep him steady your guide gives the 
bull challenge, “O’ Wach,” and whis- 
pers: “Shoot!” 
You no doubt have read all about how 
ungainly a moose is, but somehow this 
one, as he stands out there in the frost 
covered meadow, with head erect and the 
sunlight glinting from his polished ant- 
lers gives you the impression of magnifi- 
cent strength and majesty. Your rifle 
sights wobble all over the bull as you 
try desperately to align them upon hi* 
(continued on page 614 ) 
On the long portage into the moose country 
