Chapter III: Part 3

Dick caught a glimpse of Melissa now and then, and managed to exchange a few words with her occasionally, the nature of which we will not disclose. It may be said, however, that she was always in good spirits, which puzzled her father considerably, for he was at a loss to see why she should be so when Dick had not visited her since the night of the corn shucking. Moreover, she continually roused her father's anger by speaking frequently of the great honor that belonged to Farmer Lawson for so often Winning the prizes in the shooting matches.

“Dang it, Melissa, dry up!” he exclaimed, boiling with anger, “you know I hate that daddrated man. I'd fling my hat as high as the moon ef some o' these young bucks 'u'd beat him this fall; he's as full o' brag as a lazy calf is with fleas.”

“No use a hopin' fur anything o' that sort, paw; Lawson's too old a han'. He ain't got his equal at shootin' ur lawin.' The whole country couldn't rake up a better one.” After speaking in this manner she would stifle a giggle by holding her hand over her mouth until she was livid in the face, and escape from her mystified parent, leaving him to vent his spleen on the empty air.

The day of the annual shooting match drew near. It was not known who were to be the participants aside from Lawson, for the others usually waited till the time arrived to announce their intentions. No better day could have been chosen. The sky was blue and sprinkled with frothy clouds, and the weather was not unpleasantly cold. Women and men, boys, girls and children from all directions were assembled to witness the sport and were seated in chairs and wagons all over the wide, open space.

Melissa was there in a cluster of girls, and her father was near by in a group of men, all of whom--like himself--disliked the blustering, boasting Lawson and fondly hoped that someone would beat him on this occasion. Lawson stood by himself, with a confident smile on his face. His rifle butt rested on the grass and his hands were folded across each other on the end of his gun barrel.

“Wilks,” said he to the clerk of the county court, who had been chosen as referee for the occasion, “git up yore list o' fellers that are bold enough to shoot agin the champion. I reckon my nerves are 'bout as they wuz six yeer ago when I fust took my stan' here to larn this settlement how to shoot.”

Just before the list of aspirants was read aloud Dick managed to reach Melissa's side unobserved by her father.

“Did you keep yore promise 'bout cut-tin' my patchin' fur me?” he asked in a whisper.

With trembling fingers she drew from her pocket several little pieces of white cotton cloth about the size of a silver quarter of a dollar and gave them to him.

“They're jest right to a gnat's heel,” he said, warmly. “A ball packed in one o' them'll go straight ur I'm no judge.”

“Dick,” whispered she, looking him directly in the eyes, “you ain't a bit flustered. I believe you'll win.”

With a smile Dick turned away and joined the crowd round the referee's chair, and when his name was called a moment later among the names of four others he brought his rifle from a wagon and stood in view of the crowd. The first applause given that day was accorded him, for in addition to its being his first appearance in a shooting match he was universally popular.

“Bully fur you, Dick; here's my han' wishing you luck!” said a cheery-voiced farmer, shaking Dick's hand.

“It's the way with all these young strips,” said Lawson in a loud, boastful tone. “Gwine to conquer the whole round world. He'll grin on tother side o' his mouth when Bettie, the lead queen, barks and spits in the very centre o' that spot out yander.”

A feeble murmur of admiration greeted this vaunting remark, but it quickly subsided as the crowd noted that Dick Martin did not reply even by so much as to raise his eyes from the inspection of his gun. The referee called for order.

“Jim Baker,” said he, “be so kind as to drive round yore stall-fed heifer. Ladies an' gentlemen [as a man emerged from a group of wagons and drove a fine-looking young cow into the open space], here's a heifer in fine enough order to make any man's eyes sore to look. Fifteen round dollars has been paid in, by the five men who are to burn powder to-day, $3 apiece, an' the man whose shootin' iron can fling lead the straightest on this occasion is entitled to the beef and the championship o' this valley till next fall. Now, Mr. Baker, lead out yore cow, an' the shooters will please form in a line.”

When the aspirants stood in front of him the referee continued:

“Here is five pieces o' straw, all different lengths. The man who gets the shortest one shoots fust, the next longest next, an' so on till you've all had yore crack.”

Passing the straws to the riflemen, and af ter they had drawn one each from his tightly closed hands, he ordered a man to set up the target--a planed plank, about one foot in width and six in length, with a round marked spot about three inches in diameter, near the top.

“I'd willin'ly give my chance o' oats to have some o' them boys knock the stuffin' clean out'n Lawson; he's that stuck up he cayn't hardly walk,” said Bagley, his anger intensified by observing the sneering smile on Lawson's face.

“I'm mighty afeard,” said the man to whom Bagley was speaking, “that Dick Martin 'll lose his $3. I never heerd o' him bein' any han' with a gun.”

To this Bagley offered no reply. In his hatred for Lawson, and at such a time he had no thought to give to Dick.

“All ready!” rang out the voice of the referee. “Bob Ransom gits the first pull at trigger to-day.”

Silence fell on the crowd as the tall, slender young man stepped forth and stood with his left foot on a line cut in the grass exactly 100 yards from the tree against which the yellow board with its single eye leaned in the sunbeams. Not a whisper escaped the motionless assembly as the young man slowly brought his weapon into position. “Crack!” sounded the rifle out of a balloon-shaped cloud of blue smoke.

“Missed centre, board, tree an' all!” cried out Bagley, in a tone of deep regret.

“I seed yore lead plough up the dirt away out tother side; it's powerful hard to hold a steady han' when you are fust called on.”

“Next is Taylor Banks!” announced the referee; and as a middle-aged man advanced and toed the mark, Lawson was heard to say, with a loud laugh; “Fust one missed the tree; you folks on the left out thar 'u'd better set back fur-der; no tellin' who Banks 'll hit, fur he's a-tremblin' like so much jelly.”

“Hit about three inches due north o' the spot,” called out the referee, as the smoke rose from the peering marksman. “I'm afraid, Tayl', that somebody 'll come nigher than that when the pinch comes. Joe Burk is the next, an' I'll take occasion to say here that I know of no man in all this mountain country that is more prompt to pay his taxes.”

“Crack!” A universal bending of necks to get the target in better view and a rolling billow of voices in the crowd.

“A inch an' a half below the spot!” proclaimed the referee. “Why, friends, what ails you all? This ain't nigh such shootin' as we had last fall. Too many women present, I reckon. Ladies, if you'll cover up yore faces maybe the next two will do better. The straws say that Abraham Lawson has the next whack. Lawson, make yore bow.”

The champion of the settlement stepped into view with a haughty strut, dragging his rifle butt on the ground and swinging his broad-brimmed hat carelessly in his hand. Turning to a negro behind him as he took his place, he said so that all could hear:

“Tobe, git yore rope ready an' stan' over thar nigh the beef. When you git 'er home turn 'er in the pastur'. Ef this thing goes on year atter year I'll start a cattle ranch an' quit farmin'.”

“Dang his hide!” exclaimed Bagley to Melissa, who was very pale and quite speechless. “Dang it, I'd lay this here right arm on any man's meat block an' give 'im leave to chop it off ef he'd jest git beat. He's that spiled flies is on 'im.”

Lawson's hat was now on the grass at his feet and he had deliberately raised his brightly-polished weapon to his broad shoulder. The sun glittered on the long steel tube. The silence for an instant was so profound that the birds could be heard singing in the woods and the cawing of the crows in the corn fields near by sounded harsh to the ear. For an instant the sturdy champion stood as if molded in metal, his long hair falling over his gun stock, against which his tanned cheek was closely pressed. Not a sound passed the lips of the assembly, and when the rifle report came it sent a twinge to many a heart.

“Dang it!” ejaculated Lawson, as he lowered his gun and peered through the rising smoke toward the target. “I felt a unsteady quiver tech me jest as I pulled the trigger.”

“About half an inch from the very centre o' the mark. Yore ahead. Nobody is likely to come up to you, Lawson,” said the referee. “The' ain't but one more.”

“I don't keer,” replied Lawson. “I know the cow's mine; but I did want to come up to my record. I walked too fast over here an' it made me unsteady.”

“The next an' last candidate for glory,” said the referee, “is Dick Martin. No cheerin', friends, it ain't been give to the others and you oughtn't to show partiality. Besides, it might excite him, an' he needs all the nerve he's got.”

Bagley was still at Melissa's side. He had his eyes too intently fixed on the stalwart form of Dick Martin and the young man's pale, determined visage to note that his daughter had covered her pale face with her cold, trembling hands and bowed her head.

“By Jinks! he's the coolest cucumber that's lifted shootin' iron to-day,” said Bagley under his breath. “Ef he beats Lawson dagg me if I don't give him a dance in my barn an' invite every man, woman an' child in the whole valley.” With his left foot on the mark and his right thrown back easily, as if he were taking a step forward, and his well-formed body bent slightly toward the target, Dick stood motionless, sighting along his gun barrel at the target. Then, to the surprise of all, he raised his gun until it pointed to the top of the tree against which the target leaned. Here a gentle sigh, born from the union of half surprise and half disappointment, swept over the crowd as low as the whisper of a breeze through a dry foliaged tree. The sigh died away and intense silence claimed the moment, for the gun's point was sweeping rapidly downward. Hardly a second did it pause in a line with the target's centre before the report came, putting every breast in sudden motion. The marker's eyes saw a clean splinter fly from the very centre of the round.

“The beef is won by Dick Martin!” loudly proclaimed the referee.

“Whoopee! Glory! Glory!” The shout was from the lips of Bagley, and in an instant he had stridden across to Dick with outstretched hand. “Glory, Glory! Dick!” he exclaimed; “le'me have a hold o' yore fist. Tell judgment day I'm yore friend. I've said some sneakin' underhand things about you that's hurt yore feelin's an' I want to ax yore pardon. Dang it! I cayn't harbor no ill will agin a feller that's beat Abrum Lawson a-shootin'. Thank goodness you've fetched his kingdom to a end!”

When down-fallen Lawson had slunk away unnoticed from the enthusiastic crowd who were eager to congratulate Dick, Bagley came up to him and said:

“Dick, le'me have the honor o' drivin' the prize home fur you. Fur some reason ur other you didn't stay to supper with us corn-shuckin' night; Melissa's a waitin' fur you out thar in the bresh to ax you to come home with us to-night. By glory, Tobe,” turning to Lawson's negro, “this yer's the same identical beef Lawson ordered you to drive home an' put in his pastur', ain't it? Well, you jest tell 'im his friend Bagley tuk the job off'n yore han's.”

MOERAN'S MOOSE--A HUNTING STORY, By Ed. W. Sandys.

|ONE of the best fellows among the hardy lot who have ran the trails and paddled the lonely tributaries of the tipper Ottawa was Moeran. No bolder sportsman ever went into the woods, and few, or none of the guides or professional hunters could rival his skill with rifle or paddle. The tough old “Leatherstockings” fairly idolized him, for he got his game as they did, by straight shooting, perfect woodcraft, and honest hard work; and most of them, while they usually charged a heavy price for their services, would have gladly thrown in their lots with him for an outing of a month or more, and asked nothing save what he considered a fair division of the spoils. He was also a keen observer and a close student of the ways of bird and beast. The real pleasure of sport seemed to him to lie in the fact that it brought him very near to nature, and permitted him to pore at will over that marvelous open page which all might read if they chose, yet which few pause to study. His genial disposition and long experience made him ever a welcome and valuable companion afield or afloat, and the comrades he shot with season after season would have as soon gone into the woods without their rifles as without Moeran. Physically, he was an excellent type of the genuine sportsman. Straight and tall, and strongly made, his powerful arms could make a paddle spring, if need be, or his broad shoulders bear a canoe or pack over a portage that taxed even the rugged guides; and his long limbs could cover ground in a fashion that made the miles seem many and long to whoever tramped a day with him.

And this was the kind of man that planned a trip for a party of four after the lordly moose. Moeran had, until that year, never seen a wild moose free in his own forest domain, and needless to say he was keenly anxious to pay his respects to the great king of the Canadian wilderness. He had been in the moose country many times while fishing or shooting in the provinces of New Brunswick, Quebec, Ontario and Manitoba; he had seen the slots of the huge deer about pool and stream, on beaver meadow and brule; he had spent more than one September night “calling,” with a crafty Indian to simulate the plaintive appeals of a love-lorn cow; he had heard the great bulls answer from the distant hills--had heard even the low, grunting inquiry a bull moose generally makes ere emerging from the last few yards of shadowy cover, and revealing himself in all his mighty strength and pride in the moonlit open. More than once he had lain quivering with excitement and hardly daring to breathe, close-hidden in a little clump of scrub, about which stretched full forty yards of level grass on every side--lain so for an hour with every nerve strained to the ready, with ears striving to catch the faintest sound on the stillness of the night, and with eyes sweeping warily over the expanse of moonlit grass and striving vainly to pierce the black borders of forest, somewhere behind which his royal quarry was hidden. Upon such occasions he had lain and listened and watched until he fancied he could see the moose standing silently alert among the saplings, with ears shifting to and fro and with keen nose searching the air ceaselessly for trace of his mortal enemy. The occasional distant rattle of broad antlers against the trees as the big brute shook himself or plunged about in lusty strength had sounded on his ears, followed by the faint sounds of cautiously advancing footsteps seemingly bent straight toward the ambush. Then would follow a long agonizing pause, and then a snap of a twig or a faint rustling told that the crafty bull was stealing in a circle through the cover around the open space before venturing upon such dangerous ground.

At last a deathlike silence for many minutes, and then a faint, far snap of twigs and “wish” of straightening branches as the great bull stole away to his forested hills, having read in breeze or on ground a warning of the foe concealed in the harmless scrub. All these were disappointments, but not necessarily bitter ones. The long night-vigils were after all rarely spent entirely in vain, for each brought to him some new ideas, or let him a little further into the dark mysteries of the great wild world's nightly moods and methods. The skilled craft of his Indian “caller;” the strange voices of the night that came to his ears, telling of the movements of creatures but seldom seen or heard by day, were full of interest to a genuine woodsman. And then the fierce though subdued excitement of the weird watch for the huge beast that never came, and yet might come at any moment full into the silvery moonlight from out the black belt of silent wood--these were each fascinating to such a nature as his. But still he had never once seen his long-looked-for game, though several seasons had slipped away and the month of July, 18----, had come and half passed by. Then Moeran got ready his fishing tackle and camping gear and vowed to find a good district for the party to shoot over the coming season, even if he had to remain in the woods an entire month. Right well he knew some of the likeliest points in New Brunswick, Quebec and Manitoba, the eastern portion of the latter province being the best moose country now available, but none of them met the requirements of the party, and so he decided to go into northern Ontario and prospect until he found what he sought.

In the region of the upper Ottawa River, and in the wild lands about the Mattawa River and about the lakes forming its headwaters, is a country beloved of moose. Thither went Moe-ran, satisfied that his quest would not be in vain. Early in the third week of July he and his Peterboro canoe and outfit reached the railway station of North Bay, on the shore of noble Lake Nipissing. While awaiting the arrival of the guide and team for the next stage of his journey, he put rod together and strolled out on the long pier which extends for a considerable distance into the lake. Reaching the farther end and looking down into the clear, green depths below, he saw watchful black bass skulking in the shadows, and lazy pickerel drifting hither and thither, in and out, among the great piles which supported the pier. To tempt a few of these to their doom was an easy task, and soon the lithe rod was arching over a game black gladiator and a master hand was meeting every desperate struggle of a fighting fish, or slowly raising a varlet pickerel to his inglorious death. In time a hail announced the arrival of the team, and after presenting his captives to the few loungers on the pier, he busied himself stowing canoe and outfit upon the wagon.

Their objective point was on the shore of Trout Lake, a lovely sheet of water distant from Nipissing about four miles. The road was in many places extremely bad and the team made slow progress, but there was plenty of time to spare and about noon they reached the lake. The guide, as guides are given to do, lied cheerfully and insistently every yard of the way, about the beauty of the lake, the countless deer and grouse upon its shores, the gigantic fish within its ice-cold depths, the game he, and parties he had guided, had killed, and the fish they had caught. He did well with these minor subjects, but when he touched upon moose and bear he rose to the sublime, and lied with a wild abandon which made Moeran seriously consider the advantage of upsetting the canoe later on and quietly drowning him. But he was not so far astray in his description of the lake. It formed a superb picture, stretching its narrow length for a dozen miles between huge, rolling, magnificently wooded hills, while here and there lovely islands spangled its silver breast. After a hurried lunch they launched the good canoe, the guide insisting upon taking his rifle, as, according to his story, they were almost certain to see one or more bear. The guide proved that he could paddle almost as well as he could lie, and the two of them drove the light craft along like a scared thing, the paddles rising and falling, flashing and disappearing, with that beautiful, smooth, regular sweep that only experts can give. For mile after mile they sped along, until at last they neared the farther end of the lake, where the huge hills dwindled to mere scattered mounds, between which spread broad beaver meadows, the nearest of them having a pond covering many acres near its center. All about this pond was a dense growth of tall water-grasses, and in many places these grasses extended far into the water which was almost covered, save a few open leads, with the round, crowding leaves of the water-lily. A channel, broad and deep enough to float the canoe, connected this pond with the lake, and, as the locality was an ideal summer haunt for moose, Moeran decided to investigate it thoroughly and read such “sign” as might be found. Landing noiselessly, he and the guide changed places, Moeran kneeling, forward, with the rifle on the bottom of the canoe in front of him, where he alone could reach it. “Now,” he whispered, “you know the route and how to paddle; work her up as if a sound would cost your life. I'll do the watching.”

Slowly, silently, foot by foot, and sometimes inch by inch, the canoe stole up the currentless channel, the guide never raising his paddle, but pushing with it cautiously against the soft bottom and lily-roots. It was a good piece of canoe work, worthy even of Moeran's noted skill, and he thoroughly appreciated it. By motions of his hand he indicated when to halt and advance, while his eyes scanned sharply every yard of marsh revealed by the windings of the channel. Not the slightest sound marked their progress until they had almost entered the open water in the center of the pond, and were creeping past the last fringe of tall grass. Suddenly Moeran's hand signaled a halt, and the canoe lost its slow, forward motion. He looked and looked, staring fixedly at a point some twenty yards distant, where the growth of grass was thin and short and the lily-pads denser than usual, and as he gazed with a strange concentration, a wild light flashed in his eyes until they fairly blazed with exultant triumph. Straight before him among the faded greens and bewildering browns of the lily-pads was a motionless, elongated brown object very like the curved back of a beaver, and a foot or more from it, in the shadow of a clump of grass, something shone with a peculiar liquid gleam. It was an eye--a great, round, wild eye--staring full into his own--the eye of a moose--and the curving object like the back of a beaver was naught else than the enormous nose, or muffle, of a full-grown bull. Something like a sigh came from it, and then it slowly rose higher and higher until the head and neck were exposed. The big ears pointed stiffly forward, and the nose twitched and trembled for an instant as it caught the dreaded taint; then with a mighty floundering and splashing the great brute struggled to his feet. It was a grewsome spectacle to see this uncouth creature uprise from a place where it seemed a muskrat could hardly have hidden. For a few seconds he stood still.

“Shoot! Shoot!”

Moeran simply picked up the rifle and brought it level.

“Load! 'Tain't loaded--the lever--quick!”

He made no response, merely covered, first the point of the shoulder and then the ear, and then, as the bull plunged for the shore, he covered the shoulder twice more, then lowered the rifle, while a horribly excited guide cursed and raved and implored by turns in vain. And just how great was the temptation was never known, but it certainly would have proved irresistible to most men who call themselves sportsmen. In speaking about it afterward Moeran said: “It would have been a crime to have murdered the beast under such conditions, and out of season. I covered him fair four times, and could have dropped him dead where he stood--but we'll attend to them later on.” For there were, in all, four moose in the pond, and, shortly after the big bull commenced his noisy retreat, a tremendous splashing and plunging from the other side of the pond attracted their attention. They turned just in time to see a grand old cow and two younger moose struggle through the last few yards of mud and water, and then crash their way into the cover at the rapid, pounding trot peculiar to the species.

Moeran's mission had been accomplished much easier than was expected, and he certainly had discovered a most promising locality for the trip with his friends. After a day spent fishing, he departed homeward, leaving his canoe and camp outfit in charge of the guide, whom he also bound by most solemn pledge neither to betray the secret of the beaver meadow, nor to molest the moose himself, before Moeran and his friends returned in time for the first lawful day.

The last day of the close season saw the party and the guide snugly encamped at a point half-way down the lake. His three friends had unanimously agreed that Moeran should have the honor of visiting the beaver meadow first, and alone if he desired. He was the surest shot and by far the best hand at this sort of business, and he had discovered the moose, while all hands knew how keen he was to secure a head to his own rifle. So at earliest dawn Moeran put lunch and rifle into his shapely Peterboro and sped noiselessly away through the ghostly vapors curtaining the sleeping lake, and they saw him no more for many hours. The guide had questioned the others about their comrade's shooting (of his ability at the paddle he had somewhat sorrowful remembrance), and then, strange to say, had advised Moeran to go alone.

“So much more glory for you,” he said, “and I'll look after these other gentlemen and give them a day's fishing.” But his manner was shifty, and Moeran mistrusted him.

In due time he reached the little channel leading to the beaver meadow, and, as the sun lifted clear of the distant hills, he began working his way to the pond. He hardly expected to find the moose there then, but he had made up his mind to steal into the high grass and hide and watch all day, if necessary, and, at all events, study the thing out thoroughly. As the sun rose higher a brisk breeze sprang up, but as it came from the woods toward his station he did not mind, although it would have been fatal to his chance, probably, had it come from any other point of the compass. Presently his nose detected a strong, sickening odor of carrion, which, in time, as the breeze gained force, became almost overpowering, and he started to investigate. Paddling straight up-wind he came at last to a small pool, and the trouble was explained. The half-decomposed body of a full-grown cow moose lay in the pool and Moeran muttered savagely his opinion of all such butchery when he saw that not even the feet had been taken for trophies. Then he poled his canoe to the edge of the meadow and scouted carefully entirely round the open, seeking for any possible sign of the remainder of the quartet. To his utter disgust he found the remains of another moose, one of the younger animals, lying just within the borders of the cover, and, as in the other case, the butcher had not troubled himself to take away any portion of his victim. Moeran understood, of course, that the guide had played him false, and if that worthy had been present he might have seriously regretted his wrong-doing, for he it was who had guided a learned and honorable (?) American judge to the sanctuary of the moose a month previously, and, for a consideration of twenty-five dollars, enabled his patron to gratify his taste for the shambles.

Moeran's careful search discovered no fresh sign, and he made up his mind that the two survivors, the old bull and the yearling, had fled the scene and had probably sought another expanse of beaver meadow and ponds the guide had mentioned as being about ten miles from Trout Lake. Moeran knew that some sort of a trail led thither, and he resolved to find it and follow it to the end and endeavor to locate the moose.

Of the ensuing long, hard day's work it will be unnecessary to speak in detail.

At nine o'clock that night his three friends sat near their roaring camp-fire on the lake shore, wondering at his protracted absence. The guide had turned in an hour previous, but the three were anxious, so they sat and smoked, and discussed the question, piling great drift-logs on their fire till it roared and cracked in fierce exultation and leaped high in air to guide the wanderer home. Its long, crimson reflection stretched like a pathway of flame far over the black waters of the lake, and the three sat and waited, now glancing along this glowing path, anon conversing in subdued tones. The lake was as still and dark as a lake of pitch, and some way the three felt ill at ease, as though some evil impended. At last the veteran of the trio broke a longer silence than usual:

“Boys, I don't like this. It's ten o'clock and he should have been back long ago. I hope to Heaven----”

A touch on his arm from the man at his right caused him to glance quickly lakeward.

Forty feet from them, drifting noiselessly into the firelight, was the Peterboro, with Moeran kneeling as usual and sending the light craft forward in some mysterious manner which required no perceptible movement of the arms nor lifting of the paddle. It was a fine exhibition of his skill to thus approach unheard three anxious, listening men on such a night, for he had heard their voices good two miles away. His appearance was so sudden, so ghostlike, that for a few seconds the party stared in mute surprise at the forms of man and craft standing out in sharp relief against the blackness of the night; then a whoop of delight welcomed him.

He came ashore, swiftly picked up the canoe and turned it bottom upward on the sand for the night, carried his rifle into camp, then approached the fire and looked sharply round.

“The guide's asleep.”

“Oh, he is; -------- him!” Then he flung himself down on the sand. Something in his tone and manner warned his friends not to talk, and they eyed him curiously. His face was white as death and drawn with an expression of utter exhaustion, and marked with grimy lines, showing where rivulets of sweat had trickled downward. As they looked, his eyes closed; he was going to sleep as he lay.

Quietly the veteran busied himself getting food ready, and presently roused the slumberer.

“Here, old chap, have a nip and eat a bite. Why, you're dead beat. Where on earth have you been?”

A strangely hollow voice answered:

“To the back lakes.”

His listeners whistled a combined long-drawn “whew” of amazement, for right well they knew the leagues of toilsome travel this statement implied.

“See anything?”

“Wounded the old bull badly, and trailed him from the lakes to within five miles of here. That cur sleeping yonder sold us; but you hear me!” he exclaimed with sudden fierce energy, “_I'll get that moose if I have to stay in the woods forever!_”

The three looked at him in admiring silence, for they guessed that, in spite of his terrible day's work, he intended starting again at daylight. In a few moments he finished his meal and staggered to the tent, and fell asleep as soon as he touched his blanket.

When the party turned out next morning the canoe was gone, though the sun was not yet clear, of the hills. After breakfast they started in quest of grouse, working through the woods in the direction of the beaver meadows, and finding plenty of birds. About ten o'clock they heard the distant report of a rifle, followed in a few minutes by a second, and the veteran exclaimed, “That's him, for an even hundred, and he's got his moose, or something strange has happened.”

At noon they returned to camp laden with grouse. No sign of the canoe as yet, so they had dinner, and lounged about and fished during the afternoon, casting many expectant glances down the lake for the laggard canoe. Night fell, with still no sound or sign of the wanderer, and again the camp-fire roared and flamed and sent its glowing reflection streaming far over the black waste of water. And again the three sat waiting. At ten o'clock the veteran rose and said, “Keep a sharp lookout, boys, and don't let him fool you again, and I'll get up a royal feed. He'll have moose-meat in the canoe this time, for he said _he'd get that moose if he had to stay in the woods forever_. He'll be dead beat, sure, for he's probably dragged the head out with him.” So they waited, piling the fire high, and staring out over the lake for the first glimpse of the canoe. Eleven o'clock and midnight came and went, and still no sign. Then they piled the fire high for the last time and sought the tent. At the door the veteran halted, and laying a hand on the shoulder of his chum, drew him aside.

“Why, whatever's the matter with you?”

The old man's face wore a piteous expression, and his voice trembled as he whispered:

“Hush! Don't let _him_ hear you--but there's something wrong. Something horrible has happened--I feel it in my heart.”

“Nonsense, man! You're sleepy and nervous. He's all right. Why, he's just cut himself a moose steak, and had a feed and laid down----”

The sentence was never completed. A sound that caused both men to start convulsively tore through the black stillness of the night. A horrible, gurgling, demoniacal laugh came over the lake, and died away in fading echoes among the hills. “Woll-oll-all-ollow-wall-all-ollow!” as though some hideous fiend was laughing with his lips touching the water. They knew what it was, for the loon's weird cry was perfectly familiar to them, and they laughed too, but there was no mirth in their voices. Then one sought the tent, but the veteran paced up and down upon the cold beach, halting sometimes to replenish the fire or to stare out over the water, until a pale light spread through the eastern sky. Then he too turned in for a couple of hours of troubled, unrefreshing slumber.

The bright sunshine of an Indian summer's day brought a reaction and their spirits rose wonderfully; but still the canoe tarried, and as the hours wore away, the veteran grew moody again and the midday meal was a melancholy affair. Early in the afternoon he exclaimed:

“Boys, I tell you what it is: I can stand this no longer--something's wrong, and we're going to paddle those two skiffs down to the beaver meadow and find out what we can do, and we're going to start right now. God forgive us if we have been idling here while we should have been yonder!”

Two in a boat they went, and the paddles never halted until the channel to the beaver meadow was gained. Dividing forces, they circled in opposite directions round the open, but only the taint of the long-dead moose marked the spot. Then they fired three rifles in rapid succession and listened anxiously, but only the rolling, bursting echoes of the woods answered them.

“Guide, where would he probably have gone?”

“Wa'al, he told you he'd run the old bull this way from the back lakes--thar's another leetle mash a mile north of us; it's an awful mud-hole, and the bull might possibly hev lit out fur thar. Enyhow, we'd best hunt the closest spots first.”

The picture of that marsh will haunt the memories of those three men until their deaths. A few acres of muskeg, with broad reaches of sullen, black, slimy water, its borders bottomless mud, covered with a loathsome green scum, and a few pale-green, sickly-looking larches dotting the open--the whole forming a repulsive blemish, like an ulcer, on the face of the earth. All round rose a silent wall of noble evergreens, rising in massive tiers upon the hills, with here and there a flame of gorgeous color where the frost had touched perishable foliage. Overhead a hazy dome of dreamy blue, with the sun smiling down through the gauzy curtains of the Indian summer. Swinging in easy circles, high in air, were two ravens, challenging each other in hollow tones, their orbits crossing and recrossing as they narrowed in slow-descending spirals. “Look, look at him!”

One bird had stooped like a falling plummet, and now hung about fifty yards above the farther bounds of the muskeg, beating the air with heavy, sable pinions and croaking loudly to his mate above. Closing her wings, she stooped with a whizzing rush to his level, and there the two hung flapping side by side, their broad wings sometimes striking sharply against each other, their hoarse, guttural notes sounding at intervals. A nameless horror seized the men as they looked. Their hunter's instinct told them that death lay below those flapping birds, and with one impulse they hurried round on the firmer ground to the ill-omened spot.

The veteran, white-faced but active as a lad, tore his way through the bordering cover first, halted and stared for an instant, then dropped his rifle in the mud, threw up his hands and exclaimed in an agonized voice:

“Oh, my God, my God!”

One by one they crashed through the brush and joined him, and stood staring. No need for questions. Ten square yards of deep-trodden, reeking mud and crushed grass, a trampled cap, and here and there a rag of brown duck; a silver-mounted flask shining in a little pool of bloody water; a stockless rifle-barrel, bent and soiled, sticking upright; beyond all a huge, hairy body, and below it a suggestion of another body and a blood-stained face, that even through its terrible disfigurement seemed to scowl with grim determination. Throwing off their coats, they dragged the dead moose aside and strove to raise Moeran's body, but in vain. Something held it; the right leg was broken and they found the foot fast fixed in a forked root the treacherous slime had concealed. In the right hand was firmly clutched the haft of his hunting knife, and in the moose's throat was the broken blade. The veteran almost smiled through his tears as they worked to loosen the prisoned foot, and muttered, “Caught like a bear in a trap; he'd have held his own with a fair chance.” Carrying the poor, stamped, crushed body to the shade, they laid it upon the moss and returned to read the story of the fearful battle. To their hunter's eyes it read as plainly as printed page. The great bull, sore from his previous wound, had sought the swamp. Moeran had trailed him to the edge and knocked him down the first shot, and after reloading had run forward to bleed his prize. Just as he got within reach the bull had struggled up and charged, and Moeran had shot him through the second time. Then he had apparently dodged about in the sticky mud and struck the bull terrific blows with the clubbed rifle, breaking the stock and bending the barrel, and getting struck himself repeatedly by the terrible forefeet of the enraged brute. To and fro, with ragged clothes and torn flesh, he had dodged, the deadly muskeg behind and on either side, the furious bull holding the only path to the saving woods. At last he had entrapped his foot in the forked root, and the bull had rushed in and beaten him down, and as he fell he struck with his knife ere the tremendous weight crushed out his life. The veteran picked up the rifle-barrel, swept it through a pool and examined the action, and found a shell jammed fast.

In despairing voice he said, “Oh, boys, boys, if that shell had but come into place our friend had won the day, but he died like the noble fellow he was!”

With rifles and coats they made a stretcher and carried him sadly out to the lake.

“_He would get that moose, or stay in the woods forever!_”

THE MYSTERY OF A CHRISTMAS HUNT, By Talbot Torrance

“Clug!” The wad went home in the last shell, and as I removed it from the loader and finished the fill of my belt I heaved a sigh of profound relief at the completion of a troublesome job.

I hate making cartridges. Perhaps I am a novice, and have not a good kit, and am lazy, and clumsy, and impatient, and---- But go on and account for it yourself at greater length, if you will, my friends; only accept my solemn statement that I detest the operation, which, I am convinced, ought to be confined to able-bodied colored men with perseverance and pachydermatous knuckles.

An ordinary man is always in fluster and fever before he completes loading up for a day's gunning. His patent plugger becomes inexplicably and painfully fractious; his percussions are misfits; his No. 10 wads prove to be No. 12s; his shot sack is sure to spill; his canister is certain to sustain a dump into the water pail, and, when he begins to reflect on all the unmentionable _lapsi linguæ_ of which his numerous vexations are the immediately exciting, though possibly not the responsible, cause, he is apt to conclude that, say what you may in favor of the breechloader, there are a certain few points which commend the old-time muzzle-loader, especially when it comes around to charging a shell.

At all events, that is the kind of man I now am; and if the reader is not prepared to absolutely indorse me all through these crotchety cogitations, may I not hope he will at least bear with me patiently and give me time to outgrow it, if possible? But, as I was saying, I have charged up and am ready to sally forth and join the hunting party of the Blankville Gun Club, who had organized a match for Christmas Eve, a bright, nippy day of “an open winter”--as experienced in Northeastern Ontario, at any rate. I don my game bag, strap on my belt, pick up my newly-bought hammerless and prepare to leave the house. My cocker Charlie, long since cognizant of what my preparations meant, is at heel.

There is a wild light in his eyes, but, self-contained animal that he is, not a yelp, whine or even tail wag is manifested to detract from his native dignity and self possession. “Native” dignity? Aye! My dog boasts it naturally; and yet, at the same time, I fancy the switch and I have had something to do in developing it and teaching the pup its apparently unconscious display.

“You're no fool dog, are you, Charlie? You're no funny, festive, frolicsome dog, who cannot hold himself in when a run is on the programme--eh, boy?”

The silky-coated canine knows as well as I do that he is in for an afternoon a-wood. He has the inclination to leap and roll and essay to jump out of his hide. Yet the only answer he dare give to the inquiry is an appealing glance from his hazel orbs up at his master's immovable face. Yes, my dog Charlie is sober and sensible, and I am proud of these characteristics and their usefulness to me before the gun.

“Good-bye, little woman!” I sing out cheerily to my wife as I pass down the hall. She comes to the door to see me off. Sometimes, perhaps, a man will find his adieu on an occasion of this kind responded to uncordially, not to say frigidly, or perhaps not at all. But he must not grieve deeply over it or let it act as an excitative of his mean moroseness or angry passion. Think the thing all over. You are to be far away from home. Why should not the thought of the vacant chair--next to that of the demonstrative and exacting baby at meal time--rise up and sadden your wife? Can you wonder at her distant bearing as she foresees how she will sigh “for the touch of a vanished hand”--on the coal scuttle and water pail? Of course, she will “miss your welcome footsteps”--carrying in kindlings, and the “dear, familiar voice”--calling up the chickens. And so you cannot in reason expect her invariably to answer your kindly _adios_ in a gladsome, gleesome, wholly satisfied sort of way. But never you go away without the goodbye on your part--the honest, manly, loving-toned good-bye that will ring in her ears in your absence and cause her to fancy that perhaps you are not such a selfish old bear after all.

With some of us men--only a limited few, of course, and we are not inclined to think over and enumerate them--it is unhappily the case that

We have cheerful words for the stranger,

And smiles for the sometime guest;

But oft for our own the bitter tone,

Though we love our own the best.

“will miss your welcome footsteps.”

Now, if such men only thought

How many go forth in the morning,

Who never come back at night!

And hearts are broken for harsh words spoken,

Which time may never set right,

what a different atmosphere might permeate the domicile on “first days,” to say nothing of the rest of the time!

The real fact of the matter is, men and brothers, we do not accurately appreciate the objections which the domestic partners may entertain against our occasional outings. For my part I verily believe they are largely, if not entirely, prompted by the feeling that

There's nae luck aboot the hoose,

There's nae luck at a'!

There's nae luck about the hoose,

Since oor guid mon's avva'.

And here we go on thinking it is purely a matter of petty petulance and small selfishness on their part! Come, gentlemen, let us once and for all rightly appreciate the situation and resolve to do better in the future! But let us return to our sheep. My hand is on the door knob, when, pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat, is heard the tread of tiny feet. It is Ted, my little two year old, coming to say good-bye to papa. I take him up and sing gaily:

Bye, baby bunting,

Papa goes a-hunting,

To get a little rabbit skin

To wrap the baby bunting in.

How the little man crows and gurgles in glee! Then he grows demonstrative and he wants to take off my cap. He makes a grab at my game bag. As I put him down gently he tries to disarm me and possess himself of the gun.

I say, what an awful bother about the house of the sportsman is the toddling tot of a baby! He is always getting hold of your gun swab for a fish pole or to bang the dog about. Putting holes in your fish basket with a big nail or a table knife is a supreme source of delight to him. He has a mania for planting carpet tacks in your hunting boots. Making smokestacks for mud houses with your brass shells is a passion with him. If he can get hold of your ammunition to make paste of the powder, and pulp of the wads, and a hopeless mixture of the shot, he is simply in his element. Give him possession of your lines and access to your fly book and he enjoys an hour of what is, to him, immense fun, but to you pronounced and positive destruction.

And yet--you wouldn't be without, that self-same baby if to keep him cost you every shooting iron and foot of tackle you ever owned or hoped to own, and at the same time destroyed the prospect of you ever again having a “day out” on this rare old earth of ours.

It is quite safe to say that the article for which you would exchange that merry, mischievous toddler of yours, who clasps your brown neck with little white, soft arms and presses a sweet baby kiss to your bristled lips, as he sees you off on an outing, has not now an existence--and you do not seem to exactly remember when it had. And you do not care whether he destroys your possessions; they can be replaced.

Yes, indeed! Even you, most inveterate and selfish and calloused votary of the chase--you have a tender spot in your hard old heart for the baby boy. He may not be all that is orderly, obedient, non-combatable, non-destructive, but still we all love him! Not one of us, at all events, but will frankly admit that we respect him--for his father's sake. Need anything more be said?

And do not we also respect those who depict him in tenderness and affection?

Don't we think all the more of Scanlon the actor for his inimitable “Peek-a-boo?” and of Charles Mackay for his “Baby Mine?” and of Bret Harte for his “Luck of Roaring Camp?” and of Dickens--wasn't it Dickens who wrote:

When the lessons and tasks all are ended,

And the school for the day is dismissed,

And the little ones gather around me

To bid me good-bye and be kissed.

Oh, the little, white arms that encircle

My neck in a tender embrace!

Oh, the smiles that are halos of Heaven

Shedding light in a desolate place!

Has it ever occurred to you, my friend, that the baby is the same unchanged, unimproved article since the world began? Men are making smokeless powder, constructing pneumatic bicycle tires, inventing long-distance guns, training horses down to two minutes, getting sprinters to cover 100 yards close to nine seconds--revolutionizing everything, but leaving the baby the old-time brand!

People seem satisfied with the original make, and far from any movement to abolish it as out of date. The sentiment would appear to be pretty universal:

Drear were the world without a child,

Where happy infant never smiled.

We sooner could the flowerets spare,

The tender bud and blossom fair,

Or breath of spring time in the air.

I have said “bye-bye” to my tiny Ted half a dozen times and at last am about to escape during his sudden flight to another part of the house, when I am arrested by the eager cry, half in inquiry, half in jubilation, “Baby barlo! Papa, baby barlo! Dee!”

There he stands, holding up my little patent flask as though he had made a wonderful discovery. To humor the child I took the little companion, said “Ta-ta,” and was in the act of slipping it back to my wife, when I decided to keep it. I am not partial to the cup that cheers and also inebriates, and yet I have an appreciation of the pocket pistol that warms, sustains and heartens in a long tramp on a zero afternoon with only a dog for companionship and the chances of bagging anything much reduced to a minimum. I stepped to the sideboard and filled the “barlo” _quantum suff_.