almost willing to follow McNeil about, 
and in this way they started with the 
boys and dogs following behind, but 
their weak-kneed, wobbly walk made 
such slow progress and they stopped so 
often to investigate their surroundings, 
that, taking one under each arm he 
carried them up over the hill to where 
the horses were waiting. 
ERE the boys, under McNeil’s di- 
rection, made two slings of the 
horse’s blankets, put a moose calf in 
each one, slung them like panniers 
across a horse’s back, and set out for 
the camp. When they arrived and were 
setting them down, the Youngster 
called the little doe “Fanny” and the 
name stuck. 
The feeding of a young moose re- 
quires not a little skill and infinite 
patience. He is designed by nature 
with long fore-legs, short thick neck and 
protruding muzzle, to wade in and drink 
from water at least knee deep, keeping 
his throat and gullet in a fairly hori- 
zontal position, muzzle well forward and 
lower jaw and mouth just under the 
surface. When he cannot plunge and 
the drinking place is small, he drops 
readily to his knees, keeping head and 
neck in the same relative position. He 
cannot be taught to drink from any or- 
dinary vessel, for his thick long nose 
nearly fills it and presses against the 
bottom long before his mouth can reach 
the contents; and if he did get a taste 
he would be sure to waste the most of it. 
URING their early stages, and until 
they could drink from a specially 
constructed trough, McNeil’s pets took 
their nourishment from an ordinary 
feeding bottle. 
Their digestion, like that of any other 
baby is easily disturbed. They require’ 
a milk diet given in exceedingly small. 
quantities at regular hours. So to tide 
them over until he could secure them 
milk fresh from his own cows, McNeil 
gave a diet of condensed milk diluted’ 
with oatmeal water, and warmed to 
body temperature. 
Six days yielded McNeil and his boys 
four pair, all taken in much the same 
way and among them were some des- 
tined to travel far and become famous. 
A pair of young bulls, “Ivan” and 
“Major”, as yearlings went to Wash- 
ington National Park, D. C., as ideal 
specimens. Two other young bulls and 
a cow found their way to the State 
Park at Indianapolis, Indiana. But 
little “Fanny”, the tiniest and most deli- 
cate of the lot, became the pet of the 
family. 
They were loaded into the wagon on 
to a bed of springy boughs and fresh 
grass, and driven home. Every four 
hours a stop was made while they were 
lifted out and fed, and given an oppor- 
136 
tunity to walk about. When they fin- 
ally landed at the farm they were put 
in the barn and made little beds in the 
hay, where they slept, and only wakened 
to be fed. 
|B erwaee they grew stronger and more 
inquisitive and soon learned to 
come to the house at their meal time. 
Soon they came earlier and_ stood 
looking in at the kitchen door, with such 
mute appeal in their liquid eyes that 
refusal was impossible, and when filled 
they lay down like sheep, with sides 
close against the house wall, and chewed 
their tiny cuds in infinite content. 
As their legs straightened and 
strengthened, they became more play- 
ful, chasing each other about the yard 
in the evening, racing and fighting mock 
battles, and always the dangerous sharp 
fore-hooves were in evidence. They be- 
gan to be absolute Monarchs of the 
barnyard. Even Fanny, who had 
shown marked development, would strut 
about, with mincing gait and ears laid 
back, and one evening, without the 
slightest warning, sprang with all four 
hooves upon old Pompey, little remem- 
bering that his gentle forebearance at 
an earlier date had saved her a torn 
leg. 
Her baby coat of soft brown furry 
hair began to change to glossy black; 
her long legs, once so weak, were strong 
and clean as those of a Kentucky race 
horse, covered from shiny hoof to knee 
before, and to flank behind, with short 
grey hair, which blended into the black 
coat above. Along her withers and 
neck, a stiff black mane began to grow, 
and her wide ears were filled inside 
with a fine grey fur as soft as swan’s 
down. 
ER temper was as uncertain as a 
prima donna’s. In playful mood 
with ears forward and head held high, 
she strutted like a peacock, raced over 
the fields or splashed in the water. A 
passing dog might change her instantly 
and with bristling mane and flattened 
ears, she sought to use her wicked 
hooves upon the object of her displea- 
sure. 
Occasionally she would seem to feel 
the call of wilder places and in these 
moods she stood upon the highest. hill, 
gazing always to the northward, with 
ears forward and nostrils distended, as 
if to detect by sight or sound or tainted 
air, what she dimly sensed to be a dif- 
ferent realm. Out of these watches 
she would suddenly start off at full 
speed, always toward the north; but 
when closely followed, would drop to 
the ground among the long grasses or 
brushwood, hiding her head, as if by |, 
this means she would elude her pur- 
suers. 
McNeil loved his pets—and Fanny 
most of all. She loved to have him rub 
her long nose or run his big hands 
along her mane. She followed him 
while he worked about the farm, 
learned to negotiate a rail or wire fence 
without difficulty and developed a rare 
taste for young cabbages and carrots. 
With the coming of summer heat and 
flies, she took more to the water, and 
her hours of life became more regular. 
At earliest dawn she browsed among 
the shrubberry; appeared at breakfast 
for her oats and warm milk, and slept 
until near noon. 
HEN she appeared in the lake, 
sporting and wallowing in its cool- 
ness. She would plunge her long head 
down for juicy roots, and raise volumes 
of bubbles; then tossing it upward, blow 
the water from her nostrils with a 
snort while she downed the tasty mor- 
sel. Then another snooze until late 
afternoon brought out the whole bunch 
for their evening romp. 
Every day she grew and her coat be- 
came blacker and more glossy, until, 
by late autumn she was tall and slim 
and graceful. 
The one thing that gave McNeil 
cause for uneasiness was the restless 
urge that seemed to seize her without 
warning, and called her to wander 
farther and farther away. At such 
times his call of “Fanny, Fanny,” which 
generally brought her to him for some 
dainty morsel, fell upon deafened ears. 
Her head went up and “she ran—ran 
with a fierce pride of strength and 
fleetness farther into the woods. 
These spells came on with increasing 
frequency, until after one escapade she 
was brought home sorely against her 
will, at the end of a halter. 
McNeil then put a bell on her neck 
and let her wander. She chose a place 
about two miles from the house and 
seemed quite contented. Early each 
morning the bell told she was feeding; 
but never was it possible to approach 
her without her acute senses being ap- 
prised and a tinkle of the bell gave 
notice that she knew. 

T wasn’t long before she discovered 
a new feeding ground farther away. 
Still she came to MecNeil’s call and 
loved to be petted and fed on her old 
dainties, but refused to follow him back 
home. Solitude and quiet called her, 
and when winter had settled in and she 
still stayed on, and grew wilder and 
wilder, McNeil decided to bring her 
home. 
The snow of her feeding ground was 
beaten down in little trails, and they 
readily located her, but, instead of 
coming as usual to his call, she ran 
farther away. They brought out the 
horses and McNeil posted his boys 
(Continued on page 176) 
