Delicately filming with the first green, and spicy-fragrant, were the
young birch-trees on the slopes about the Mamozekel water. From tree-top
to tree-top, across the open spaces, the rain-birds called to each other
with long falls of melody and sweetly insistent iteration. In their
intervals of stillness, which came from time to time as if by some secret
and preconcerted signal, the hush was beaded, as it were, with the tender
and leisurely staccatos of the chickadees. The wild kindreds of the
Tobique country were all happily busy with affairs of spring.
While the great cow was pasturing on birch-twigs, the calf rested, with
long legs tucked under him, on the dry, softly carpeted earth beneath the
branches of a hemlock. At this pleasant pasturage the mother moose was
presently joined by her calf of the previous season, a sturdy
bull-yearling, which ran up to her with a pathetic little bleat of
delight, as if he had been very desolate and bewildered during the days
of her strange absence. The mother received him with good-natured
indifference, and went on pulling birch-tips. Then the yearling came over
and eyed with curiosity the resting calf,—the first moose-calf he had
ever seen. The king, unperturbed and not troubling himself to rise,
thrust forward his spacious ears, and reached out a long inquiring nose
to investigate the newcomer. But the yearling was in doubt. He drew back,
planted his fore hoofs firmly, and lowered and shook his head,
challenging the stranger to a butting bout. The old moose, which had kept
wary eye upon the meeting, now came up and stood over her young, touching
him once or twice lightly with her upper lip. Then, swinging her great
head to one side, she glanced at the yearling, and made a soft sound in
her throat. Whether this were warning or mere pertinent information, the
yearling understood that his smaller kinsman was to be let alone, and not
troubled with challenges. With easy philosophy, he accepted the
situation, doubtless not concerned to understand it, and turned his
thoughts to the ever fresh theme of forage.
Through the spring and summer the little family of three fed never far
from the Mamozekel stream; and the king grew with astonishing speed. Of
other moose families they saw little, for the mother, jealous and
overbearing in her strength, would tolerate no other cows on her
favourite range. Sometimes they saw a tall bull, with naked forehead,
come down to drink or to pull lily-stems in the still pools at sunset.
But the bull, feeling himself discrowned and unlordly in the absence of
his antlers, paid no attention to either cows or calves. While waiting
for autumn to restore to his forehead its superb palmated adornments, he
was haughty and seclusive.
By the time summer was well established in the land, the moose-calf had
begun to occupy himself diligently with the primer-lessons of life.
Keeping much at his mother’s head, he soon learned to pluck the tops of
tall seeding grasses; though such low-growing tender herbage as cattle
and horses love, he never learned to crop. His mother, like all his
tribe, was too long in the legs and short in the neck to pasture close to
the ground. He was early taught, however, what succulent pasturage of
root and stem and leaf the pools of Mamozekel could supply; and early his
sensitive upper lip acquired the wisdom to discriminate between the
wholesome water-plants and such acrid, unfriendly growths as the
water-parsnip and the spotted cowbane. Most pleasant the little family
found it, in the hot, drowsy afternoons, to wade out into the leafy
shallows and feed at leisure belly-deep in the cool, with no sound save
their own comfortable splashings, or the shrill clatter of a kingfisher
winging past up-stream. Their usual feeding hours were just before
sunrise, a little before noon, and again in the late afternoon, till
dark. The rest of the time they would lie hidden in the deepest thickets,
safe, but ever watchful, their great ears taking in and interpreting all
the myriad fluctuating noises of the wilderness.
The hours of foraging were also—for the young king, in particular, whose
food was mostly provided by his mother—the hours of lesson and the hours
of play. In the pride of his growing strength he quickly developed a
tendency to butt at everything and test his prowess. His yearling brother
was always ready to meet his desires in this fashion, and the two would
push against each other with much grunting, till at last the elder,
growing impatient, would thrust the king hard back upon his haunches, and
turn aside indifferently to his browsing. Little by little it became more
difficult for the yearling to close the bout in this easy way; but he
never guessed that in no distant day the contests would end in a very
different manner. He did not know that, for a calf of that same spring,
his lightly tolerated playfellow was big and strong and audacious beyond
all wont of the wide-antlered kindred.
The young king was always athrill with curiosity, full of interest in all
the wilderness folk that chanced to come in his view. The shyest of the
furtive creatures were careless about letting him see them, both his
childishness and his race being guarantee of good will. Very soon,
therefore, he became acquainted, in a distant, uncomprehending fashion,
with the hare and the mink, the wood-mouse and the muskrat; while the
mother mallard would float amid her brood within a yard or two of the
spot where he was pulling at the water-lilies.
One day, however, he came suddenly upon a porcupine which was crossing a
bit of open ground,—came upon it so suddenly that the surly little beast
was startled and rolled himself up into a round, bristling ball. This was
a strange phenomenon indeed! He blew upon the ball, two or three hard
noisy breaths from wide nostrils. Then he was so rash as to thrust at it,
tentatively rather than roughly, with his inquisitive nose,—for he was
most anxious to know what it meant. There was a quiver in the ball; and
he jumped back, shaking his head, with two of the sharp spines sticking
in his sensitive upper lip.
[Illustration: “THE MOTHER MALLARD WOULD FLOAT AMID HER BROOD.”]
In pain and fright, yet with growing anger, he ran to his mother where
she was placidly cropping a willow-top. But she was not helpful. She knew
nothing of the properties of porcupine quills. Seeing what was the
matter, she set the example of rubbing her nose smartly against a stump.
The king did likewise. Now, for burrs, this would have been all very
well; but porcupine quills—the malignant little intruders throve under
such treatment, and worked their way more deeply into the tender tissues.
Smarting and furious, the young monarch rushed back with the purpose of
stamping that treacherous ball of spines to fragments under his sharp
hoofs. But the porcupine, meanwhile, had discreetly climbed a tree,
whence it looked down with scornful red eyes, bristling its barbed
armory, and daring the angry calf to come up and fight. For days
thereafter the young king suffered from a nose so hot and swollen that it
was hard for him to browse, and almost impossible for him to nurse. Then
came relief, as the quills worked their way through, one dropping out,
and the other getting chewed up with a lily-root. But the young moose
never forgot his grudge against the porcupine family; and catching one,
years after, in a poplar sapling, he bore the sapling down and trod his
enemy to bits. In his wrath, however, he did not forget the powers and
properties of the quills. He took good care that none should pierce the
tender places of his feet.
Some weeks after his meeting with the porcupine, when his nose and his
spirits together had quite recovered, he made a new acquaintance. The
moose family had by this time worked much farther up the Mamozekel, into
a region of broken ground, and steep up-thrusts of rock. One day, while
investigating the world at a little distance from his mother and brother,
he saw a large, curious-looking animal at the top of a rocky slope. It
was a light brown-gray in colour, with a big, round face, high-tufted
ears, round, light, cold eyes, long whiskers brushed back from under its
chin, very long, sharp teeth displayed in its snarlingly open jaws, and
big round pads of feet. The lynx glared at the young king, scornfully
unacquainted with his kingship. And the young king stared at the lynx
with lively, unhostile interest. Then the lynx cast a wary glance all
about, saw no sign of the mother moose (who was feeding on the other side
of the rock), concluded that this was such an opportunity as he had long
been looking for, and began creeping swiftly, stealthily, noiselessly,
down the slope of rocks.
Any other moose-calf, though of thrice the young king’s months, would
have run away. But not so he. The stranger seemed unfriendly. He would
try a bout of butting with him. He stamped his feet, shook his lowered
head, snorted, and advanced a stride or two. At the same time, he uttered
a harsh, very abrupt, bleating cry of defiance, the infantile precursor
of what his mighty, forest-daunting bellow was to be in later years. The
lynx, though he well knew that this ungainly youngster could not
withstand his onslaught for a moment, was nevertheless astonished by such
a display of spirit; and he paused for a moment to consider it. Was it
possible that unguessed resources lay behind this daring? He would see.
It was a critical moment. A very few words more would have sufficed for
the conclusion of this chronicle, but for the fact that the young king’s
bleat of challenge had reached other ears than those of the great lynx.
The old moose, at her pasturing behind the rock, heard it too. Startled
and anxious, she came with a rush to find out what it meant; and the
yearling, full of curiosity, came at her heels. When she saw the lynx,
the long hair on her neck stood up with fury, and with a roar she
launched her huge, dark bulk against him. But for such an encounter the
big cat had no stomach. He knew that he would be pounded into paste in
half a minute. With a snarl, he sprang backward, as if his muscles had
been steel springs suddenly loosed; and before his assailant was half-way
up the slope, he was glaring down upon her from the safe height of a
hemlock limb.
This, to the young king, seemed a personal victory. The mother’s efforts
to make him understand that lynxes were dangerous had small effect upon
him; and the experience advanced him not at all in his hitherto unlearned
lesson of fear.
Even he, however, for all his kingly heart, was destined to learn that
lesson,—was destined to have it so seared into his spirit that the
remembrance should, from time to time, unnerve, humiliate, defeat him,
through half the years of his sovereignty.
It came about in this way, one blazing August afternoon.
The old moose and the yearling were at rest, comfortably chewing the cud
in a spruce covert close to the water. But the king was in one of those
restless fits which, all through his calfhood, kept driving him forward
in quest of experience. The wind was almost still; but such as there was
blew up stream. Up against it he wandered for a little way, and saw
nothing but a woodchuck, which was a familiar sight to him. Then he
turned and drifted carelessly down the wind. Having passed the spruce
thicket, his nostrils received messages from his mother and brother in
their quiet concealment. The scent was companion to him, and he wandered
on. Presently it faded away from the faintly pulsing air. Still he went
on.
Presently he passed a huge, half-decayed windfall, thickly draped in
shrubbery and vines. No sooner had he passed than the wind brought him
from this dense hiding-place a pungent, unfamiliar scent. There was
something ominous in the smell, something at which his heart beat faster;
but he was not afraid. He stopped at once, and moved back slowly toward
the windfall, sniffing with curiosity, his ears alert, his eyes striving
to pierce the mysteries of the thicket.
He moved close by the decaying trunk without solving the enigma. Then, as
the wind puffed a thought more strongly, he passed by and lost the scent.
At once he swung about to pursue the investigation; and at the same
instant an intuitive apprehension of peril made him shudder, and shrink
away from the windfall.
He turned not an instant too soon. What he saw was a huge, black, furry
head and shoulders leaning over the windfall, a huge black paw, with
knife-like claws, lifting for a blow that would break his back like a
bulrush. He was already moving, already turning, and with his muscles
gathered. That saved him. Quick as a flash of light he sprang, wildly.
Just as quickly, indeed, came down the stroke of those terrific claws.
But they fell short of their intended mark. As the young moose sprang
into the air, the claws caught him slantingly on the haunch. They went
deep, ripping hide and flesh almost to the bone,—a long, hideous wound.
Before the blow could be repeated, the calf was far out of reach,
bleating with pain and terror. The bear, much disappointed, peered after
him with little red, malicious eyes, and greedily licked the sweet blood
from his claws.
The next instant the mother moose burst from her thicket, the long hair
of her neck and shoulders stiffly erect with rage. She had understood
well enough that agonised cry of the young king. She paused but a second,
to give him a hasty lick of reassurance, then charged down upon the
covert around the windfall. She knew that only a bear could have done
that injury; and she knew, without any help from ears, eyes, or nose,
that the windfall was just the place for a bear’s lying-in-wait. With an
intrepidity beyond the boldest dreams of any other moose-cow on the
Mamozekel, she launched herself crashing into the covert.
[Illustration: “BUT THEY FELL SHORT OF THEIR INTENDED MARK.”]
But her avenging fury found no bear to meet it. The bear knew well this
mighty moose-cow, having watched her from many a hiding-place, and
shrewdly estimated her prowess. He had effaced himself, melting away
through the underwood as noiselessly and swiftly as a weasel. Plenty of
the strong bear scent the old moose found in the covert, and it stung her
to frenzy. She stamped and tore down the vines, and sent the rotten wood
of the windfall flying in fragments. Then she emerged, powdered with
débris, and roared and glared about for the enemy. But the wily bear was
already far away, well burdened with discretion.