The deep snow in the moose-yard was trodden down to the moss, and darkly
soiled with many days of occupancy. The young spruce and birch trees
which lined the trodden paths were cropped of all but their toughest and
coarsest branches; and the wall of loftier growth which fenced the yard
was stripped of its tenderer twigs to the utmost height of the tall
bull’s neck. The available provender was all but gone, and the herd was
in that restlessness which precedes a move to new pastures.
The herd of moose was a small one—three gaunt, rusty-brown, slouching
cows, two ungainly calves of a lighter hue, and one huge, high-shouldered
bull, whose sweep of palmated antlers bristled like a forest. Compared
with the towering bulk of his forequarters, the massive depth of his
rough-maned neck, the weight of the formidable antlers, the length and
thickness of his clumsy, hooked muzzle with its prehensile upper lip, his
lean and frayed hindquarters looked grotesquely diminutive. Surprised by
three days of blinding snowfall, the great bull-moose had been forced to
establish the yard for his herd in an unfavourable neighbourhood; and now
he found himself confronted by the necessity of a long march through snow
of such softness and depth as would make swift movement impossible and
fetter him in the face of his enemies. In deep snow the moose can neither
flee nor fight, at both of which he is adept under fair conditions; and
deep snow, as he knew, is the opportunity of the wolf and the hunter. But
in this case the herd had no choice. It was simply take the risk or
starve.
[Illustration: “LED HIS HERD OFF NORTHWARD.”]
That same night, when the moon was rising round and white behind the
fir-tops, the tall bull breasted and trod down the snowy barriers, and
led his herd off northward between the hemlock trunks and the jutting
granite boulders. He moved slowly, his immense muzzle stretched straight
out before him, the bony array of his antlers laid back level to avoid
the hindrance of clinging boughs. Here and there a hollow under the level
surface would set him plunging and wallowing for a moment, but in the
main his giant strength enabled him to forge his way ahead with a steady
majesty of might. Behind him, in dutiful line, came the three cows; and
behind these, again, the calves followed at ease in a clear trail, their
muzzles not outstretched like that of the leader, but drooping almost to
the snow, their high shoulders working awkwardly at every stride. In
utter silence, like dark, monstrous spectres, the line of strange shapes
moved on; and down the bewildering, ever-rearranging forest corridors the
ominous fingers of long moonlight felt curiously after them. When they
had journeyed for some hours the herd came out upon a high and somewhat
bare plateau, dotted sparsely with clumps of aspen, stunted yellow birch,
and spruce. From this table-land the streaming northwest winds had swept
the snow almost clean, carrying it off to fill the neighbouring valleys.
The big bull, who knew where he was going and had no will to linger on
the way, halted only for a few minutes’ browsing, and then started
forward on a long, swinging trot. At every stride his loose-hung,
wide-cleft, spreading hoofs came sharply together with a flat, clacking
noise. The rest of the line swept dutifully into place, and the herd was
off.
But not all the herd. One of the calves, tempted a little aside by a
thicket of special juiciness and savour, took alarm, and thought he was
going to be left behind. He sprang forward, a powerful but clumsy stride,
careless of his footing. A treacherous screen of snow-crusted scrub gave
way, and he slid sprawling to the bottom of a little narrow gully or
crevice, a natural pitfall. His mother, looking solicitously backward,
saw him disappear. With a heave of her shoulders, a sweep of her long,
hornless head, an anxious flick of her little naked tail, she swung out
of the line and trotted swiftly to the rescue.
There was nothing she could do. The crevice was some ten or twelve feet
long and five or six in width, with sides almost perpendicular. The calf
could just reach its bushy edges with his upstretched muzzle, but he
could get no foothold by which to clamber out. On every side he essayed
it, falling back with a hoarse bleat from each frightened effort; while
the mother, with head down and piteous eyes staring upon him, ran round
and round the rim of the trap. At last, when he stopped and stood with
palpitating sides and wide nostrils of terror, she, too, halted. Dropping
awkwardly upon her knees in the snowy bushes, with loud, blowing breaths,
she reached down her head to nose and comfort him with her sensitive
muzzle. The calf leaned up as close as possible to her caresses. Under
their tenderness the tremblings of his gaunt, pathetic knees presently
ceased. And in this position the two remained almost motionless for an
hour, under the white, unfriendly moon. The herd had gone on without
them.
[Illustration: “STOOD FOR A MOMENT TO SNIFF THE AIR.”]