692 
FOREST AND 
STREAM 
December, .1918 
RAOUL AND THE NEW BRUNSWICK MOOSE 
FROM AN ARKANSAS SWAMP TO THE TOBIQUE RIVER WAS SIMPLY A MATTER OF TIME 
SO THE SCEPTICAL HUNTER AND THE CANADIAN POLICE BOTH CAPTURE THEIR GAME 
By JEAN DE MACKLOT 
I T was all the fault of Raoul that I got the 
notion of hunting moose. I can still vis¬ 
ualize him in the Arkansas swamp along 
the Saint Francis river, leisurely chopping 
away at a hickory axle, while he talked and 
talked away about the moose up in his be¬ 
loved New Brunswick. 
“Are there still moose there in abund¬ 
ance?” I ventured the question, although I 
carried a perverse idea—at least Raoul 
called it that—that modern firearms had cut 
a swath in the ranks of big game, to such 
an extent that even on that famous Rancous 
river of his the extirpation of the moose 
had all but been accomplished. 
“Toujours beeg moose, always will be 
beeg moose,” declared Raoul, flinging my 
way an aroma of whiskey which al¬ 
ways accompanied him. “Some heads 
comme zat beeg dead black gum 
tree on de groun’!” 
"Pretty big creatures,” I reflected 
audibly, but in a low tone, not en¬ 
tirely incredulous, and limiting my 
own mental creation of New Bruns¬ 
wick moose to certain restrictions 
necessitated by my certainty that 
Raoul had been imbibing freely of 
swampers’ Squirrel Juice. Person¬ 
ally I had great faith in Raoul’s 
veracity when uncontrolled by this 
concoction of red swamp water, al¬ 
cohol, and black molasses. 
On account of his ability with a 
five pound chopping axe and a much 
heavier broadaxe the little Cana¬ 
dian was the envy of the big 
logging camp. With an axe he could 
perform the marvellous, though blue eyes 
of a pale color, flaxen hair, and height 
not over five feet three gave him a very 
boyish appearance. To close acquaintances, 
however, Raoul’s most amazing characteris¬ 
tic was that he was always well soaked with 
liquor. You have heard of chronic drinkers, 
inebriates, Raoul had them outclassed badly; 
he was never sober. Had any of the swamp¬ 
ers at any time beheld him perfectly free 
from the clutches of John Barleycorn, in 
that state, Raoul de Gibberville must have 
been unrecognizable. For they had no more 
expectation of ever seeing him sober than 
they had of pronouncing his last name cor¬ 
rectly. 
“Have you, Monsieur, attendu — heard 
—of ze Tobique, Nipisiguit, or the Ran¬ 
cous?” Raoul asked one day, as he dropped 
astride of a convenient log, and thrust his 
hand in one end. The hand came forth 
again, grasping a quart bottle of whiskey. 
He had always a bottle accompanying him 
at work, and fifteen minutes was the al¬ 
lotted time between each sip. 
“No, Raoul; yes, probably I have, but I 
can’t place them right now. No—you know 
I don’t drink,” I responded. 
Raoul partook of a sip, wiped the oozing 
perspiration from his pink brow, and hold¬ 
ing the bottle contemplatively before him, 
stated: “New Brunswick!” 
The feet that I alone spoke French of all 
that bunch of swampers endeared me to the 
crack hewer. 
“Je vais allez—l go back some day,” he 
confided tentatively, and measuring the time 
elapsed between the last sip. “And I tak 
you ’long.” 
I shook my head. “Not yet.” 
“Un jour? The moose ... so beeg 
. . . and the feesh saumon and trout. 
Poof! rien ici like it. Et Caribou, Poof! 
rien ici like it.” 
To get the full benefit of Raoul’s “Poof” 
imagine two arms extended palms upward 
in the traditional gesture of a second hand 
clothes Jew. Both of his cheeks swelled out 
prodigiously, but when the word Poof! ex- 
We shook hands over the fallen monarch 
ploded the scent of fifty distilleries permeat¬ 
ed the surroundings. 
W HEN I saw Raoul once more it was 
back in the hill country. Two wide- 
eyed natives wondered at his skill 
with an axe, and enviously gaped at his 
capacity for storing booze. Doubtless it was 
the same Raoul—a little more steeped with 
liquor, but still happy, and very glad to see 
me. He had uncovered another accom¬ 
plishment—one that appealed to me far more 
than his others—he handled a canoe in swift 
water in masterly fashion. 
“I go back home thees spring, Monsieur. * 
Next fall you come—me and you. By Gar, 
go moose hunting on the south branch of 
Rancous!” he said. 
“But, Raoul,” I told him, “It takes a rich 
man for that trip—car fare there, guide, that ' 
fifty dollar big game license, licensed guide, 
and it is all more than I can expend.” 
“Poof! Poof!” twice in succession he 
deluged me with that spirituous vapor. 
Again he found a convenient log, and pro¬ 
duced the inevitable bottle. The natives 
drank of it with facile gurgles, and listened 
to what he said to me. Raoul’s sips were 
growing some in duration. “You beeg fool! 
Pardonnez, Monsieur —but doan you see? 
Vous etres Canadian. Vous parlez Francais 
—voyez. I guide; me been licensed guide 
wan time.” 
This was exceedingly tempting. I spoke 
French. Without question I would be con¬ 
ceived a Canadian. But it was very hard to 
conjure little Raoul as a guide. Yes, on 
second thought, it was probable, for I had 
seen less prepossessing ones in my own 
country—men with the will to carry Raoul’s 
customary load of liquor, but utterly devoid 
of the capacity. 
At last it was in his own country that I 
found Raoul. The temptations toward a 
•moose hunt were very strong; and finally I 
yielded. When I stepped off into the small 
gathering of men at Indian Town, I in¬ 
stantly scented the little Canadian. I did 
not recognize him in the little man at my 
side, for his change to northern garb and a 
heavy black beard was difficult of 
unravelling. His hair was black, too 
—but those pale, far-away looking 
blue eyes still remained^ and the 
aroma was stronger, if anything. 
“Parle Francais!” joyously he 
cautioned me, as he seized my be¬ 
longings and detached them as well 
as myself from the crowd. 
I think it was the second—no, the 
third day out that I got the full 
grasp of Raoul as of yore. A little 
affair in time back with a knife had 
on his return to New Brunswick 
necessitated the change of name to 
Francois Le Clerque, and the sub¬ 
sequent staining of his hirsute 
growth so that he had lost his boyish 
look. And Francois had become 
a licensed guide. 
A LL I heard on my trip from the sports¬ 
men in the cars and at the stations 
had been record heads, spread of 
horns, bell, points, and a host of other 
things that I knew little or nothing about. 
And many shook their heads dubiously 
when I suggested the possibility of stopping 
a big moose with my .35 Remington. And 
to add weight to their prediction here was 
Raoul—now Francois—shaking his head 
with uncertainty at my rifle. 
“Mebbe she weel do,” he said. But Raoul 
could never stay long in a state of pessim¬ 
ism, and promptly added: "Eh bien, we weel 
see many beeg moose with heads so b-e-e-g!” 
“Whoa, Raoul—Francois,” I interposed, 
“there’s no black gum trees up here for 
comparison. Just let it stand big moose 
until I see one.” 
Many were the camps that we passed on 
our way into the wilderness. On conversing 
with the hunters some, though having been 
successful, were deploring the size of the 
heads. Though the tyro, like myself, the 
first head shown would have satisfied to 
perfection. On hearing my opinion ex¬ 
pressed the moose hunters snickered, and 
gazed commiseratingly at my .35 automatic. 
All were equipped with the latest type bolt 
action rifles, and regaled me with tales of 
their kills at unbelievable distances. Yet 
what I heard and saw of those long dis- 
