it, and my moccassins. Also the moose 
was fairly greased with soft, oozy mud, 
and his hair was too short for a hand 
grip. I must grab his bristling mane 
or slide off again. For my legs were 
entirely inadequate to clip the swelling 
barrel of his body. 
And Harry did it. He shot the canoe 
right up the moose’s spine and with a 
yell I went over again; this time well 
up on the moose’s back. 
But again the moose fooled us. He 
leaped forward with a peculiar shim- 
mying-hesitation—rising-two-step that 
jarred my teeth together with a snap 
and sent me dizzy and groping once 
more for a hold. Scrambling along the 
back of the bull I made out to grip a 
bit of the bristling mane, and hung on 
for dear life. 
Across the bog we went in a pother 
of mud and foam, till his feet touched 
the harder ground on the rim. Then 
shaking himself like a dog, he rose un- 
der me and leaped out while I shot back- 
ward on my shoulders in the bog again. 
It was at this point that I had told 
the ranger to cover me with his rifle. 
For that bog was eighteen or twenty 
feet of mud with a slim cover of water. 
And the moose would be on good ground 
while I was helpless in the mud. So, if 
he turned then, it would be all over ex- 
cept the benediction. 
But luck played with us still. He 
acted like a perfect gentleman. He 
never turned to get even with us, but 
slowly and deliberately trotted off for 
about fifty yards. Then he actually 
stopped—as moose are so apt to, and 
with all the deliberation in the world 
turned his huge head to look at us, 
as if to say, “Well, this is certainly 
some queer-acting animal, but I got out 
of that easier than I hoped.” Then he 
loped away, and the enfolding forest 
swallowed him, while the canoes re- 
trieved me from the bog, and slowly we 
turned homeward, jubilant, for break- 
fast. We had done the thing so many 
said was impossible. We had a picture 
record of it. And we had felt the thrill 
of a real hand to hand struggle with 
the moose on equal terms. Those old 
Red Indians of the mound had nothing 
on us. So we saluted them in memory 
and wished them good hunting in the 
spirit land, while we grinned and pro- 
ceeded to wrap ourselves around a good, 
warm, well-cooked breakfast. The 
world seemed a pretty decent place to 
live in after all. 

Page 763 
In writing to Advertisers mention Forest and Stream, 
A Bit of Southern Angling 
(Continued from page 727) 
the story sound more reasonable and to 
leave a better impression on Doc of his 
(Jack’s) probity. At first Jack was in- 
dignant and said that he really had 
been too conservative in his estimate, 
and that he should have fixed the num- 
ber of sharks at fifteen thousand. 
UT after much persuasion and only 
as a personal favor to Doc the num- 
ber of sharks in the story was reduced 
to nine thousand seven hundred, and no 
argument nor eloquence on my part 
could get the figure any lower. As Doc 
seemed willing to swallow Jack’s story 
about killing fifty pintail ducks in one 
shot, and the story about landing a 
sixty-five pound red fish, and several 
other stories that would make Aesop 
blush, I do not believe Doce should be 
criticized for concentrating his objec- 
tions on the shark story. I think that 
Doc felt in view of the dramatic and 
emotional manner in which Jack told 
his stories, with his high tenor voice 
pitched at its loudest and his hands and 
feet all co-operating, it would be too 
much of a physical strain for anyone 
to undertake to straighten out, or mod- 
ify, all of Jack’s stories. Again, why 
not let Jack be happy as he believes his 
stories are all true even if no one else 
does. But Iam sure if Jack’s hands and 
feet were tied, it would be as though 
he had been struck dumb. 
OC says that when their stories 
are weighed together, Johnnie is 
really a greater liar than Jack, but 
Johnnie tells his tales so modestly and 
quietly that they are not so offensive to 
one’s credulity, and he leaves the im- 
pression that he is really only trying 
to outdo Jack, and so went on the re- 
enactment of the Arabian Nights on our 
whole trip, with our two Baron Munch- 
hausen guides. 
This story would be too long if I 
undertook to tell all the amusing and 
interesting events of the trip. Suffice 
it that our best expectations were real- 
ized in the matter of quantity of fish. 
Fishing off the numerous shell keys in 
the Gulf and in the adjacent bayous, 
we caught specimens of nearly every 
salt water fish to be found there. In 
the three days’ fishing we caught about 
six hundred fish; enough to keep our 
own table bountifully supplied during 
the trip. Enough fer the guides to 
bring home to their families and their 
neighbors; and finally two baskets as 
large as Doc and myself could carry 
home to supply our own friends and 
neighbors. 
Can any one living in a large city 
beat that for a fishing trip in waters 
distant only a few hours from his of- 
fice? 
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