“’Tis night upon the lake. Our camp is made
’Twixt shore and hill beneath the pine-trees’ shade.
’Tis still, and yet what woody noises loom
Against the background of the silent gloom;
One well might hear the opening of a flower
If day were hushed as this.”
A VISION ON THE LAKE.--NICHOLS’ BIRCH-HORN.--A MIDNIGHT HUNT UNDER A
COLD MOON.--CALLING THE MOOSE.
Two days afterwards the Colonel and Hiram, returning from an excursion
down the lake, drew their canoes up on the shore, and entered the camp
looking as sorrowful and dejected as a couple of jilted lovers.
“What’s the matter?” I asked with alarm, for John Mansell happened to
be out also, and the fear struck me at once that something might have
happened him.
“Matter? you would not ask it if you had been with us to-day and seen
the moose,” replied the Colonel sadly.
[Illustration: “MOOSE? YOU DON’T SAY SO! WHEN? WHERE?”]
“Moose! you don’t say so! when? where?” I exclaimed, and in this
frantic query I was joined by the voice of the younger Mansell, who at
that moment suddenly appeared behind us from the woods.
The Colonel’s voice choked itself in a feeble struggle at reply, and
stacking his Winchester against the back of the tent, he threw himself
with a disconsolate air down upon his bed. But Hiram, less crushed by
the evident misfortune, kindly obliged me with a graphic detail of the
trouble.
[Illustration: “OH, SUCH A PAIR OF HORNS!”]
“It was down on the second Mansungun Lake. We was paddlin’ up that
stream to the right, where we shot the mink yesterday, and the Kernel
was whippin’ the stream with his fly rod, when all of a sudden we heerd
a crackin’ of the bushes, and then out on the edge o’ the bank stalked
one of the biggest bull moose I ever did see. He’d have weighed more’n
a thousand pound, Nichols, sure as I stand here. Oh, _such_ a pair of
horns!” and the guide’s arms were raised in a tremendous gesture.
The Colonel groaned, and raising himself on one hand he swept the other
frantically through the air and gave us a magnificent idea of the
spread of the horns from tip to tip.
“Then,” continued Hiram, “up started the Kernel, and slingin’ his rifle
to place he pegged in the lead afore ye could count a brace o’ winks.
Did the bull drop?--no--didn’t even give a quiver, for the ball cut
wide. Did he turn flanks and tear off--no sir-ee; he waded nearer and
nearer to us, till he was only _eight rods off_ at the most. ‘Pepper
him agin, Kernel, and fire low,’ I whispered, a-tryin’ to steady the
canoe. Then bang! went the Kernel agin, an’ with a thunderin’ snort the
bull wheeled ’round, and went smashin’ away through the woods.”
“An’ you missed him clean?” said John.
“No! not the last shot, that hit him somewhere in the neck, for we
found his blood on the ground afterwards, but the first ball cut the
alders three foot over his head. It was the queerest thing you ever
see. Why! I was so sure of him, that I was figurin’ how I was goin’ to
get the carcass back to camp, an’ smackin’ my lips over the steaks.”
“Oh! don’t speak of it! don’t speak of it! I shall _never_ have such
a chance again as long as I live; no, never! never!” and the Colonel
threw himself back on his blankets with a groan.
I smiled for an instant. I could have “Pinafored” him then and there
upon the spot. It was a glorious chance, but his gun was standing close
beside him and I did not dare.
“But it’s something to have _seen_ one, in his native wilds,” I
remarked, trying my best to comfort him; “the animal will soon be
extinct in this country.”
It was of no use, and I think that lost opportunity threw a veil of
sadness over the Colonel’s mind for the remainder of the tour; at any
rate, it was a delicate subject to touch upon afterwards.
“If moose so near,” said Nichols, one day, “me better make horn and
call moose to-night; no try, no get him.”
We thought this a good scheme, and with the approval of all the Indian
tramped off into the woods, and soon returned with a large piece of
birch bark. Shaving the edges with his knife, he warmed it over the
fire, and proceeded to roll it up into a great horn two feet in length,
tapering it from six inches to one in diameter, and fastening the edges
with wooden pegs.
Nichols and I were the only ones who went out on the hunt. Preparing
ourselves after the evening repast, we stepped into our canoes at 7.30
o’clock. It was not a remarkably severe night, but as I knew I should
be obliged to remain for a long time in almost motionless position, I
took precautions to wrap up extremely well, and before I returned, the
night chill had penetrated through it all to the very vicinity of my
bones.
[Illustration: THE DECOY.]
“Most ready?” asked the Indian, as in this clumsy and uncomfortable
attire I rolled, rather than seated, myself in the bottom of the canoe.
“Yes; all ready, Nichols!” and throwing the birch moose horn into the
craft we paddled out into the lake, with the best wishes of the rest
of the party from the shore.
“If we hear a shot,” yelled the Colonel, with a look of dubiousness,
“we will add an extra log to the fire.”
“And cut up the balance of our salt pork,” added Hiram, “for moose
steak is a little dry without it.”
It was a clear night, and so still that the sound of voices and the
blows of an axe at camp could be easily heard two miles across the
lake. The bright October moon was gradually creeping down the western
sky, but shone enough to light us on our way many miles.
“She shone upon the lake
That lay one smooth expanse of silver light;
She shone upon the hills and rocks, and cast
Within their hollows and their hidden glens
A blacker depth of shade.”
The tall hemlocks that fringed the shore threw their shadows far out
into the lake, and in these reflections the guide paddled from point to
point.
A slight rustle behind me and the Indian draws forth the long birch
horn, dips it noiselessly in the water, and for the first time in my
existence I listen to the weird sound of the moose call.
[Illustration: CALLING THE MOOSE.]
Ugh--ugh--ugh--oo--oo--oo--oo--oo--ugh--ugh!
Three plaintive “ughs,” then a prolonged bellow, commencing in a low
tone, increasing in power and volume to the end, and followed by two
notes like the first.
It rolled across the lake in every direction, was tossed from mountain
tops to the inmost depths of the forests, echoing and re-echoing. Then
all was hushed, and we waited in silence the result. The stillness was
something overpowering. We held our breaths. At times, however, it was
harshly broken. Away toward the distant shore some sportive animal
would splash in his gambols at the water’s edge, or a muskrat could be
distinctly heard gathering his evening meal; then the prow of the canoe
would graze the rushes or the lily-pads with a suddenness that was
startling.
Noiselessly the Indian plied his paddle, and we crept silently on in
the shadows. Again the horn was raised to his lips, and there came
forth that strange midnight call so melodious to my ears. This was
repeated again and again for six successive hours, neither of us
exchanging a word during the entire time.
At last the stars alone cast their reflections in the glassy lake, and
although from a distant mountain side we at last received an answer to
our call, we could not draw the animal to the water’s edge.
We had paddled over ten miles. It was now 2 o’clock in the morning, and
we returned to camp. I was too stiff to move, and the Indian lifted me
from the canoe to the shore, while I realized that I had experienced
all the pleasures of moose hunting--save the moose.
[Illustration]