Successful in the chase, or on the contrary, it must be premised that many a sportsman who essays the sport of moose-hunting in the North-American woods finds but little excitement therein. The toil and monotony of the long daily rambles through a wilderness country, strewed with rocks and fallen trees, and covered with tangled vegetation, with the uncertainty of obtaining even a distant sight of (much less a shot at) these cautious animals, whose tracks one is apparently constantly following to no purpose, drive not a few would-be hunters from the woods in a state of supreme disgust.

There is no country in the world where wild sports are pursued, in which the goddess of hunting exacts so much perseverance and labour from her votaries as the fir-covered districts of North America, or bestows so scanty a reward. The true and persistent moose-hunter (never a poacher or a pot-hunter) is generally animated by other sentiments, and achieves success through an earnest appreciation of the external circumstances which attend the sport. He loves the solitude of the forest, and admires its scenery; is charmed with the ready resources and wild freedom of camp life, and, instead of listlessly following in the tracks of his Indian guides in a state of semi-disgust, derives the greatest pleasure in watching their wonderful powers of tracking, their sagacity in finding the game, and general display of woodcraft.

It is, perhaps, to this art of tracking or “creeping” that the sport itself owes all its excitement; and it is in the lower provinces (Nova Scotia especially) that it is carried out to perfection by the Indian hunters; a race, however, which, it must be regrettingly stated, is fast disappearing from the country.

In Nova Scotia the moose may not be legally shot after the last day of December, and are thus protected, by the absence of deep snow in the woods during the open season, from such ruthless invasions of their restricted “yards,” and wanton massacres as are of frequent occurrence in New Brunswick and Lower Canada. Moose hunting in the deep snows which choke the forests towards the close of winter—the hunter being able to move freely over the surface by the aid of his snow-shoes, whilst the animals are huddled together, spiritless, and in wretched condition—is a stupid slaughter, and decidedly deserves the imputation often cast upon it, that it has no more merit of sport than the being led up to a herd of cattle in a farmyard.

The light snow-storms, however, of the first winter months cover the ground just sufficiently to bring out the art of creeping to its perfection, whilst the moose cannot be run down, and snow shoes are never required. The dense deciduous foliage of the hard woods is now all removed, and the woods afford clear open vistas in which game may be far more readily detected than in the cover of autumn; a wounded animal seldom escapes the hunter to die a lingering death; and, lastly, there cannot be the slightest excuse for leaving in the woods the spoils which it becomes the imperative duty of the hunter, for many reasons, to remove.

At the same time fall-hunting has likewise its advantages. There is a double chance of sport now presented, as creeping may be pursued by day, whilst at sunrise and sunset, and, indeed, throughout the night when the moon is round, the “call” may be resorted to. Much, too, in the way of camp equipage may be dispensed with at this season. One may travel till sundown and camp in one’s tracks amongst the rank ferns and bushes of the upland barrens with but one rug or blanket for cover, and sleep soundly and comfortably in the open, though a rime frost sparkles on every spray next morning. And if, perhaps, the supply of firewood has been somewhat short towards dawn, the excitement of hearing an answer in the still morning air warms you to action; a mouthful of Glenlivet from the flask, and a hasty snatch of what small amount of caloric may be excited by the Indian’s breath amongst the embers of the night fire, and you are ready for the “morning call.”

And then, when the sun dispels the vapours, raises the thin misty lines which mark the water courses and forest lakes, and, finally, mellows the scenery with the hazy atmosphere of a warm autumnal day, what a glorious time it is to be in the woods! Give me the fall for moose hunting, and the stealthy creep through glowing forests on an Indian summer’s day, when the air in the woods holds that peculiar scent of decaying foliage which to my nostrils conveys an impression as pleasing as that produced by the blossom-scented zephyrs of May.

Perhaps one of the most singular of the experiences which the new hand meets with in moose hunting, and the one which teaches him to lean entirely for assistance upon his Indian guide, is the extreme unfrequency with which an accidental sight of game is obtained in the forest. Moose tracks are perhaps plentiful, also signs of fresh feeding on the bushes, and impressed forms of the animals, where they have rested on the moss, or amongst ferns, but how seldom do we see the animals themselves by chance. Suddenly emerging from thick cover on the edge of an extensive barren occupying several thousand acres, the eye of the hunter rapidly scans the open in eager quest of a moving form, but meets with continual disappointment. Not a sign of life, perhaps, but the glancing flight of a woodpecker or the croak of a raven. One is prone to believe that the country is deserted by large game. Presently, however, your Indian, who, leaving you to rest on a fallen tree and enjoy a few whiffs of the hunters solace, makes a cast round for his own satisfaction, returns to tell you that there are moose within (possibly) a few hundred yards of you. You discredit it, but are presently induced to believe his assertion when you are shown the freshly-bitten foliage (anyone can soon learn to distinguish between a new-cropped bough and a bite over which a few hours have passed), or, perhaps, the mud still eddying in a little pool in which the animal has stepped. You may listen, too, by the hour together for some token of their whereabouts, but hear, no sounds but those of the birds or squirrels.

If there is daylight, and the wind propitious, your guide will probably in half an hour or so point to a black patch seen between tree stems, indicating a portion of the huge body of a moose, unless you have bungled the whole affair by an unlucky stumble over a brittle windfall, or clanked your gun-stock against a tree-stem. It will thus be readily seen that success in moose hunting entirely depends upon the excellence of the Indian hunter who accompanies the sportsman. His art, or “gift,” is hardly to be comprehended by description; it is as evidently the result of long practice—not, perhaps, individual practice, but of the skill which he has inherited from his forefathers, who before the advent of Eastern civilisation, regularly “followed the woods”—as is the high state of perfection to which the various breeds of sporting dogs have been brought by artificial means.

Soon confused in the maze of woods through which your Indian leads you after moose, you chance to ask him at length where camp lies. He will tell you within half a point of the compass, and without hesitation, though miles away from the spot. The slightest disarrangement of moss or foliage, a piece of broken fern, or a scratch on the lichens of a granite plateau, are to him the sign-posts of the woods; he reads them at a glance, running. Should you rest under a tree or by a brook-side, leaving, perhaps, gloves, purse, or pouch behind, next day he will go straight to the spot and recover them, though the country is strange. Under the snow he will find and show you what he has observed or secreted during the previous summer. He is the closest observer of nature, and can tell you the times and seasons of everything; and there is not an animal, bird, or reptile whose voice he cannot imitate with marvellous exactness.

A faithful companion, and always ready to provide beforehand for your slightest necessities, the Micmac hunter will never leave you in the woods in distress; and should you cut yourself with an axe, meet with a gun accident, or be taken otherwise sick, will carry you himself out of the woods.* Under his guidance we will now introduce the reader to the sport of moose hunting.

Old Joe Cope, the Indian hunter, is still to the fore; his little legs, in shape resembling the curved handle of pliers, carry him after the moose nearly as trustily as ever. Perhaps his sight and hearing are failing him, and he generally hunts in company with his son Jem as an assistant; and Jem, being a lusty young Indian, does most of the work in “backing out” the moose-meat from the woods.

“Joe,” said I, on meeting the pair one morning late in September, a few falls ago, at the country-market at Halifax, where they were selling a large quantity of moose-meat, Joe's eyes beaming with ferocious satisfaction as he pocketed the dollars by a ready sale. “Joe, I think I must come and look at your castle, at Indian Lake; they say you have exchanged your camp for a two-storey frame-house, and are the squire of the settlement. Do you think you have left a moose or two in your preserves?”

[The following anecdote—a scrap from the note-book of an old comrade in the woods—is an interesting example of the Indian’s reflective powers:— “At length Paul, who is leading, stops, and, turning towards us, points towards a cleared line through the forest. ‘ A road, a road ! ’ and we give three such cheers. It is a logging-road, leading from the settlements into the forest; but which is the way to the clearings! If we turn in the wrong direction it will delay us another day, and we have only a little tea left and six small biscuits. It is soon settled ; we turn to the left, and presently find a wisp of hay dropped close to a tree. Now comes out a piece of Indian ‘’cuteness/ Paul has observed that when a tree knocks off a handful of hay from a load, it falls on that side of the tree to which the cart is going: the hay is on our side ,of the tree, so we are going in the direction whence the cart came. But it might be wild hay, brought in from a natural meadow. They taste and smell it; it is salt (in this country the farmers salt the meadow hay to keep it, but not the wild hay) : hence this was hay carted from the settlements for the use of oxen employed in hauling out lumber. We are, therefore, going in the direction whence the cart came, and towards the settlements.”

Since this was written, poor Joe has for ever left the hunting grounds of Acadie, having shot his last moose but a few weeks before he rested from a life of singular adventure and toil. Eequiescat in pace.]

“Well, Capten, I very glad to see you always when you come along my way. I most too old, though, to hunt with gentlemen—can't see very well.”

“We will make out somehow, Joe; and Jem there will help you through, if you come to a stand-still."

“Oh, never fear,” replied Mr. Cope (he always speaks of himself as Mr. Cope), laughing ; “that Jem, he don’t know nothing; I guess I more able to put him through yet.”

And so we closed the bargain; to wit, that we should have a day or two's hunting together in what Joe fully regarded as his own preserves and private property—the woods around Indian Lake, distant twenty miles from Halifax.

What would the old Indians, at the close of the last century, have said, if told that in a short time a stagecoach would ply through their broad hunting-grounds between the Atlantic and the Bay of Fundy? Think of the astonishment of Mr. Cope and his comrades of the present age, perhaps just stealing- on a bull-moose, when they first heard the yell of the engine and rattle of the car-wheels ! This march has been accomplished ; the old Windsor coach, with its teams of four, after having flourished for nearly half a century, has succumbed to the iron-horse, and the discordant sounds of passing trains re-echo through the neighbouring woods, to the no small disgust of Mr. Cope and those of his race in the same interest.

Joe said that in the country we were going to hunt, every train might be distinctly heard as it passed; “and yet" said he, “the poor brutes of moose don’t seem to mind it much ; they know it can’t hurt them.”

A settler’s waggon took our party over an execrable road to the foot of Indian Lake. It had been raining heavily all the morning, and we turned in to warm ourselves at the settler’s shanty, whilst the old Indian went off by a path through the dripping bushes to his camp, for the purpose of sending his canoe for me. This, and a few scattered houses in the neighbourhood, was called the Wellington settlement; and here, as at the Hammond’s Plains settlement, which we had passed through that morning, the principal occupation of the inhabitants seemed to be in making barrels for the fishery trade. They make them very compact, as they are intended for herring or mackerel in pickle. The staves are spruce, and are bound with bands of birch. The barrel is sold for a trifle more than an English shilling. The Hammond’s Plains people are all blacks, a miserable race, descendants of those who were landed in Nova Scotia at the conclusion of the American war in 1815. Their wretchedness in winter is extreme, and in the summer they earn a hand-to-mouth livelihood by bringing in to the Halifax market a few vegetables grown in the small cleared patches round their dwellings, bunches of trout from the brooks, and the various berries which grow plentifully in the wild waste lands round their settlement.

*Presently the canoe was signalled, and, going down to the water’s edge, I embarked, and in a few minutes stood before Joes castle. It was a substantial frame-house, evidently built by some settler who had a notion of making his fortune by the aid of a small stream which flowed into the lake close by, and over which stood a saw-mill. An old bam was attached, and from its rafters hung moose-hides of all sizes, ages, and in all stages of decomposition; horns, legs, and hoofs; porcupines deprived of their quills, which are used for ornamental work by the women; and, in fact, a very similar collection, only on a grander scale, to that which is often displayed on the outside of a gamekeeper s bam in England.

A rush of lean, hungry-looking curs was made through the door as Joe opened it to welcome me. “Walk in, Capten—ah, you brute of dog, Koogimook! Mrs. Cope from home, visiting his friends at Windsor. Perhaps you take some dinner along with me and Jem before we start up lake?”

“All right, Joe; I’ll smoke a pipe till you and Jem are ready,” I replied, not much relishing the appearance of the parboiled moose-meat which Jem was fishing out of a pot. “No chance of calling to-night, I’m afraid, Joe: we shall have a wet night”

“I never see such weather for time of year, Capten; everything in woods so wet—can’t hardly make fire; but grand time for creeping—oh, grand! Everything, you see, so soft, don’t make no noise. What sort of moccasin you got?”

“A good pair of the moose-shanks you sold me, last winter, Joe; they are the best sort for keeping out the wet, and they are so thick and warm.”

The moose-shank moccasin is cut from the hind leg of the moose, above and below the hock; it is in shape like an ankle-boot, and is sewn up tightly at the toe, and, with this exception, being without seam, is nearly watertight. The interior of Cope Castle was not very sweet, nor were its contents arranged in a very orderly manner —this latter fact to be accounted for, perhaps, by the absence of the lady. Portions of moose were strewed everywhere; potatoes were heaped in various comers, and nothing seemed to have any certain place of rest allotted to it. Smoke-dried eels were suspended from the rafters, in company with strings of moose-fat and dried cakes of concrete blue-berries and apples. Joe had, however, some idea of the ornamental, for parts of the Illustrated News and Punch divided the walls with a number of gaudy pictures of saints and martyrs.

The repast being over, the Indians strided out, replete, with lighted pipes, and paddles in hand, to the beach. Some fresh moose-meat was placed in the canoe, with a basket of Joe’s “’taters,” which, Jem said, "it twas hardly any use boiling; they were so good, they fell to pieces.” A little waterproof canvas camp was spread over the rolls of blankets, guns, camp-kettles, and bags containing the grub, which were stowed at the bottom; and, having seated myself beside them, the Indians stepped lightly into the canoe and pushed her off, when, propelled by the long sweeping strokes of their paddles, we glided rapidly up the lake.

Indian Lake is a beautiful sheet of water, nearly ten miles in length, and, proportionally, very narrow—perhaps half a mile in its general breadth. Rolling hills, steep, and covered with heavy fir and hemlock wood, bounded its western shore; those oil the opposite side showing large openings of dreary burnt country. The maple-bushes, skirting the water, were tinged with their brightest autumnal glow; and in the calm water, in coves and nooks, on the windward side of the lake, the reflections were very beautiful. I longed for a cessation of the rain, and a gleam of sunshine across the hill-tops, if only to enjoy the scenery as we passed; and certainly a seat in a canoe is a very pleasant position from which to observe the beauties of lake or river scenery, the spectator being comfortably seated on a blanket or bunch of elastic boughs in. the bottom of the canoe—legs stretched out in front, back well supported by rolls of blankets, and elbows resting on the gunwales on either side.

“Ah! here is the Halfway rock, what the old Indians call the Grandmother,” said Joe, steering the canoe so as to pass close alongside a line of rocks which stood out in fantastic outlines from the water close to the western shore of the lake. “Here is the Grandmother—we must give him something, or we have no luck.”

To the rocks in question are attached a superstitious attribute of having the power of influencing the good or bad fortune of the hunter. They are supposed to be the enchanted form of some genius of the forest; and few Indians, on a hunting mission up the lake, care to pass them without first propitiating the spirit of the rocks by depositing a small offering of a piece of money, tobacco, or biscuit.

“That will do, Capten; anything almost will do,” said Joe, as one cut off a small piece of tobacco, and another threw a small piece of biscuit or a potato on to the rock. “Now you wouldn't b’lieve, Capten, that when you come back you find that all gone. I give you my word that's true; we always find what we leave gone.” Whereupon Joe commenced a series of illustrative yarns, showing the dangers of omitting to visit “the Grandmother" and how Indians, who had passed her, had shot themselves in the woods, or had broken their legs between rocks, or had violent pains attack them shortly after passing the rock, and on returning, and making the presents, had immediately recovered.

“It looks as if it were going to be calm to-night, Joe,” said I, as we neared the head of the lake; “which side are we to camp on? Those long mossy swamps and bogs which run back into the woods on the western side, look likely resorts for moose.”

“Noplace handy for camp on that side,” said Joe; “grand place for moose, though—guess if no luck tomorrow mornin’, we cross there. I got notion of trying this side first.” And so, having beached the canoe, turned her over, and drawn her into the bushes secure from observation, we made up our bundles, apportioning the loads, and followed Joe into the forest, now darkened by the rapidly closing shades of evening. In a very short time the dripping branches, discharging their heavy showers upon us as we brushed against them, and the saturated moss and rank fern, made us most uncomfortably wet; and as the difficulties of travelling increased as the daylight receded, and the tight wet moccasin is not much guard to the foot coming in painful contact with an unseen stump or rock, we were not sorry when the weary tramp up the long wooded slope from the lake was ended, and a faint light through the trees in the front showed that we had arrived at the edge of the barrens. “It’s no use trying to make call to-night, that sartin,” said Joe; “couldn’t see moose if he came. Oh, dear me, I sorry for this weather! Come, Jem, we try make camp right away.” It was a cheerless prospect, as we threw off our bundles on the wet ground; it was quite dark, and, though nearly calm, the drizzling rain still fell and pattered in large drops, falling heavily from the tree-tops to the ground beneath. First we must get up a good fire—no easy thing to an unpractised hand in woods saturated by a week’s rain. However, it can be done, so seek we for some old stump of rotten wood, easily knocked over and rent asunder, for we may, perhaps, find some dry stuff in the heart. Joe has found one, and, with two or three efforts, over it falls with a heavy thud into the moss, and splits into a hundred fragments. The centre is dry, and we return to the spot fixed upon with as much as we can carry. The moss is scraped away, and a little carefully-composed pile of the dead wood being raised, a match is applied, and a cheerful tongue of flame shoots up, and illumines the dark woods, enabling us to see our way with ease. Now is the anxious time on which depends the success of the fire. A hasty gathering of more dry wood is dexterously piled on, some dead hard-wood trees are felled, and split with the axe into convenient sticks, and in a few moments we have a rousing fire, which will maintain its ground and greedily consume anything that is heaped upon it, in spite of the adverse element. A few young fir saplings are then cut, and placed slantingly against the pole which rests in the forks of two upright supports; the canvas is unrolled and stretched over the primitive frame, and our camp has started into existence. The branches of the young balsam firs, which form its poles, are well shaken over the fire, and disposed in layers beneath, to form the bed; blankets are unrolled and stretched over the boughs, and finding, to my joy, that the rain had not reached the change of clothes packed in my bundle, I presently recline at full length under the sheltering camp, in front of a roaring fire, which is rapidly vaporising the moisture contained in my recent garments, suspended from the top of the camp in front. Joe is still abroad, providing a further stock of firewood for the night, whilst his son is squatting over the fire with a well-filled frying-pan, and its hissing sounds drown the pattering of the raindrops.

After our comfortable meal followed the fragrant weed, of course, and a discussion as to what we should do on the morrow. The barrens we had come to were of great extent, and of a very bad nature for travelling, the ground being most intricately strewed with the dead trees of the forest which once covered it, and the briars and bushes overgrowing and concealing their sharp-broken limbs and rough granite rocks, often cause a severe bruise or fall to the hunter. It was, as Joe said, a “grand place” for calling the moose, as in some spots the country could be scanned for miles around, whilst the numerous small bushes and rock boulders would afford a ready concealment from the quick sight of this animal. However, time would show. If calling could not be attempted next morning, it would most likely be suitable for creeping ; so, hoping for a calm morning and a clear sky, or, at all events, for a cessation of the rain, we stretched ourselves for repose; and the pattering drops, the crackings and snappings of the logs on the fire, and the hootings of the owls in the distant forest, became less and less heeded or heard, till sleep translated us to the land of dreams.

To our disgust it still rained when we awoke next morning; the wind was in the same direction, and the same gloomy sky promised no better things for uis that day. The old Indian, however, drew on his moccasins, and started off to the barren by himself to take a survey of the country whilst the breakfast was preparing, and I gloomily threw myself back on the blanket for another snooze. After an hour or so’s absence, Joe returned, and sat down to his breakfast (we had finished ours, and were smoking), looking very wet and excited. “Two moose pass round close to camp last night,” said he; “I find their tracks on barren. They gone down the little valley towards the lake, and I see their tracks again in the woods quite fresh. You get ready, Capten; I have notion we see moose to-day. I see some more tracks on the barren going southward; however, we try the tracks near camp first,—maybe we find them, if not started by the smell of the fire.”

We were soon at it, and left our camp with hopeful hearts and in Indian file, stepping lightly in each other’s tracks over the elastic moss. Everything was in first-rate order for creeping on the moose; the fallen leaves did not rustle on the ground, and even dead sticks bent without snapping, and we progressed rapidly and noiselessly as cats towards the lake. Presently we came on the tracks, here and there deeply impressed in a bare spot of soil, but on the moss hardly discernible except to the Indian’s keen vision. They were going down the valley; a little brook coursed through it towards the lake, and from the mossy banks sprung graceful bushes of moose-wood and maple, on the young shoots of which the moose had been feeding as they passed. The tracks showed that they were a young bull and a cow, those of the latter being much longer and more pointed. Presently we came to an opening in the forest, where the brook discharged itself into a large circular swamp, densely grown up with alder bushes and swamp maple, with a thick undergrowth of gigantic ferns. Joe whispered, as we stood on the brow of the hill overlooking it, “Maybe they are in there lying down; if not, they are started;" and, putting to his lips the conical bark trumpet which he carried, he gave a short plaintive call—an imitation of a young bull approaching and wishing to join the others. No answer or sound of movement came from the swamp. “Ah, I afraid so,” said Joe, as we passed round and examined the ground on the other side. “I ’most all the time fear they started; they smell our fire this morning while Jem was making the breakfast.” Long striding tracks, deeply ploughing up the moss, showed that they had gone off in alarm, and at a swinging trot, their course being for the barrens above. It was useless to follow them, so we went off to another part of the barrens in search of fresh tracks. The walking in the open was most fatiguing after the luxury of the mossy carpeting of the forest.

Slipping constantly on wet smooth rocks, or the slimy surfaces of decayed trees; for ever climbing over masses of prostrate trunks, and forcing our way through tangled brakes, and plunging into the oozing moss on newly inundated swamps, we spent a long morning without seeing moose, though our spirits were prevented from flagging by constantly following fresh tracks. The moose were exceedingly “yary,” as Joe termed it, and we started two or three pairs without either hearing or seeing them, until the same exclamation of disappointment from the Indian proclaimed the unwelcome fact. At length we reached the most elevated part of the barren. We could see the wooded hills of the opposite shore of the lake looming darkly through the mist, and here and there a portion of its dark waters. The country was very open; nothing but moss and stunted huckleberry bushes, about a foot and a half in height, covered it, save here and there a bunch of dwarf maples, with a few scarlet leaves still clinging to them. The forms of prostrate trunks, blackened by fire, lying across the bleached rocks, often gave me a start, as, seen at a distance through the dark misty air, they resembled the forms of our long-sought game—particularly so when surmounted by twisted roots upheaved in their fall, which appeared to crown them with antlers.

“Stop, Capten! not a move!” suddenly whispered old. Joe, who was crossing the barren a few yards to my left; “don’t move one bit!” he half hissed and half said through his teeth. “Down—sink down—slow—like me!” and we all gradually subsided in the wet bushes.

I had not seen him; I knew it was a moose, though I dared not ask Joe, but quietly awaited further directions. Presently, on Joe’s invitation, I slowly dragged my body through the bushes to him. “Now you see him, Capten— there—there! My sakes, what fine bull! What pity we not a little nearer—such open country!”

There he stood—a gigantic fellow—black as night, moving his head, which was surmounted by massive white-looking horns, slowly from side to side, as he scanned the country around. He evidently had not seen us, and was not alarmed, so we all breathed freely. This success on our part was partly attributable to the suddenness and caution with which we stopped and dropped when the quick eye of the Indian detected him, and partly to the haziness of the atmosphere. His distance was about five hundred yards, and he was standing directly facing us, the wind blowing from him to us. After a little deliberation, Joe applied the call to his lips, and gave out a most masterly imitation of the lowing of a cow-moose, to allure him towards us. He heard it, and moved his head rapidly as he scanned the horizon for a glimpse of the stranger. He did not answer, however; and Joe said, as afterwards proved correct, that he must have a cow with him somewhere close at hand. Presently, to our great satisfaction, he quietly lay down in the bushes. “Now we have him,” thought I; “but how to approach him?” The moose lay facing us, partially concealed in bushes, and a long swampy gully, filled up with alders, crossed the country obliquely between us and the game. We have lots of time, as the moose generally rests for a couple of hours at a time. Slowly we worm along towards the edge of the alder swamp; the bushes are provokingly short, but the mist and the dull grey of our homespun favour us. Gently lowering ourselves down into the swamp, we creep noiselessly through the dense bushes, their thick foliage closing over our heads. Now is an anxious moment—the slightest snap of a bough, the knocking of a gun-barrel against a stem, and the game is off.

“Must go back,” whispered Joe, close in my ear; “can’t get near enough this side—too open;” and the difficult task is again undertaken and performed without disturbing the moose. What a relief, on regaining our old ground, to see his great ears flapping backwards and forwards above the bushes! Another half-hour passes in creeping like snakes through the wet bushes, which we can scarcely hope will conceal us much longer. It seems an age, and often and anxiously I look at the cap of my single-barrelled rifle. I am ahead, and at length, judging one hundred and twenty yards to be the distance, I can stand it no longer, but resolve to decide matters by a shot, and fire through an opening in the bushes of the swamp. Joe understands my glance, and placing the call to his lips, utters the challenge of a bull-moose. Slowly and majestically the great animal rises, directly facing me, and gazes upon me for a moment; a headlong stagger follows the report, and he wheels round behind a clump of bushes.

“Bravo! you hit him, you hit sure enough,” shouts Joe, levelling and firing at a large cow-moose which had, unknown to us, been lying close beside the bull. “Come along,” and we all plunge headlong into the swamp. Dreadful cramps attacked my legs, and almost prevented my getting through—the result of sudden violent motion after the restrained movements in the cold wet moss and huckleberry-bushes. A few paces on the other side, and the great bull suddenly rose in front of us, and strided on into thicker covert. Another shot, and he sank lifeless at our feet. The first ball had entered the very centre of his breast and cut the lower portion of the heart.

Late that night our canoe glided through the dark waters of the lake towards the settlement. The massive head and antlers were with us.

“Ah, Grandmother,” said Joe, as we passed the indistinct outlines of the spirit rocks, “you very good to us this time, anyhow; very much we thank you, Grandmother.”

“It’s a pity, Joe,” I observed, “that we have not time to see whether our offerings of yesterday are gone or not; but mind, when you go up the lake again to-morrow to bring out the meat, you don’t forget your Grandmother, for I really think she has been most kind to us.”

Few white hunters have succeeded in obtaining the amount of skill requisite in palming off this strange deceit upon an animal so cautious and possessing such exquisite senses as the moose. It is a gift of the Indian, whose soft, well modulated voice can imitate the calls of nearly every denizen of the forest.

As has- been stated before, September is the first month for moose-calling, the season lasting for some six weeks. I have seen one brought up as late as the 23rd of October.

The moose is now in his prime; the great palmated horns, which have been growing rapidly during the summer, are firm as rock, and the hitherto-protecting covering of velvet-like skin has shrivelled up and disappeared by rubbing against stumps and branches, leaving the tines smooth, sharp, and ready for the combat.

The bracing, frosty air of the autumnal nights makes the moose a great rambler, and in a short time districts, which before would only give evidence of his presence by an occasional track, now show countless impressions in the swamps, by the sides of lakes, and on the mossy bogs. He has found his voice, too, and, where moose are numerous, the hitherto silent woods resound with the plaintive call of the cow, the grunting response of her mate, and the crashings of dead trees, as the horns are rapidly drawn across them to overawe an approaching rival.

This call of the cow-moose is imitated by the Indian hunter through a trumpet made of birch bark rolled up in the form of a cone, about two feet in length; and the deceit is generally attempted by moonlight, or in the early morning in the twilight preceding sunrise—seldom after. Secreting himself behind a sheltering clump of bushes or rocks, on the edge of the forest barren, on some favourable night in September or October, when the moon is near its full, and not a breath of wind stirs the foliage, the hunter utters the plaintive call to allure the monarch of the forest to his destruction. The startling and strange sound reverberates through the country; and as its echoes die away, and everything resumes the wonderful silence of the woods on a calm frosty night in the fall, he drops his birchen trumpet in the bushes, and assumes the attitude of intense listening. Perhaps there is no response; when, after an interval of about fifteen minutes, he ascends a small tree, so as to give greater range to the sound, and again sends his wild call pealing through the woods. Presently a low grunt, quickly repeated, comes from over some distant hill, and snappings of branches, and falling trees, attest the approach of the bull; perhaps there is a pause—not a sound to be heard for some moments. The hunter, now doubly careful, knowing that his voice is criticised by the exquisite ear of the bull, kneels down, and, thrusting the mouth of his

MOOSE-CALLING BY NIGHT.

“call” into the bushes close to the ground, gives vent to a lower and more plaintive sound, intended to convey the idea of impatience and reproach. It has probably the desired effect; an answer is given, the snappings of branches are resumed, and presently the moose stalks into the middle of the moonlit barren, or skirts its sides in the direction of the sound. A few paces further—a flash and report from behind the little clump of concealing bushes, and the great carcass sinks into the laurels and mosses which carpet the plains.

Whatever may be adduced in disfavour of moose-calling on the score of taking the animal at a disadvantage, it is confessedly one of the most exciting of forest sports. The mysterious sounds and features of night life in the woods, the beauty of the moonlight in America— so much more silvery and bright than in England—the anxious suspense with which the hunter regards the last flutterings of the aspens as the wind dies away, and leaves that perfect repose in the air which is so necessary to the sport, and the intense feeling of sudden excitement when the first distant answer comes to the wild ringing call, are passages of forest life acknowledged by all who have experienced them as producing a most powerful effect on the imagination, both when experienced and in memory.

But few moose are shot in this manner—very few in comparison with the numbers tracked or crept upon—for the per centage of animals that are thus brought up, even by the best Indian caller, is very small, and it is the attribute of native hunters in every wild country where there are large deer—as the moose, reindeer, or sambur— to attain their object by imitation of their voices.

Another method of calling which has fallen into disuse was formerly practised by the Indians of the Lower Provinces in the fall. The hunter secretes himself in a swamp—one of those damp mossy valleys in which the moose delights at this season; no moon is required, and his companion holds an immense torch, made of birch bark, and a match ready for lighting it. The moose comes to the call far more readily than when the hunter is on the open barren or bog, and, when within distance, the match is applied to the torch; the resinous bark at once flares brightly, illuminating the swamp for a long distance round, and discovers the astonished moose standing amongst the trees, and apparently incapable of retreat. The Indians say that he is fascinated by the light, and though he may walk round and round, he cannot leave it, and of course offers an easy mark to the rifle.

It is no easy matter to make sure of a moose, even should he be within pistol range, in the uncertain moonlight; chalk is sometimes used, the better to show when the barrel is levelled. A highly-polished silver bead is the best for a fore-sight, as it catches the light, and is readily discerned when the alignment is obtained.

Moose-calling is always a great uncertainty. Some seasons there are when the moose will not come so readily as in others, but stop after advancing for a short distance, and remain in the forest for hours together, answering the call whenever it is made, and tearing the branches with their horns; the hunter, his patience worn out, and stiff with cold and from lying so long and motionless in the damp bushes, at last gives it up, and retires to his camp. Should there be the slightest wind, moose will always take advantage of it in coming up to the caller, and endeavour to get his scent. The capacious nostrils of the moose, up which a man can thrust his arm, show the fine powers of that organ; and should the hunter have crossed the barren or the forest intervening betwixt him and the approaching bull at any time during the day, unless heavy rain has occurred and obliterated the smell of his track, the game is up; not another sound is heard from the moose, who at once beats a retreat, and so noiselessly, that the hunter often believes him to be still standing, quietly listening, when, in fact, he is in full retreat, and miles away. In districts where moose are very numerous, a number of bulls will reply to the call at the same time from different parts of the surrounding woods; and in such cases it becomes, as the Americans express it, “a regular jam;” they fear one another; and, unless one of them is a real old *un, and cares for nobody, cannot be induced to come out boldly, though they do sometimes try to cheat one another, and sneak round the edge of the woods very quietly.

[“The old Bushman” recommended for shooting large game at night a V-shaped forked stick to he hound on the muzzle, stating that he found it of great service. Get the object in the field of view between the horns of the V and you are pretty sure to hit.]

Your patriarch moose, however, scorns a score of rivals, and goes in for a fight on every fitting occasion ; indeed, you have only to approach him when with his partner in the thick swamp, and, cracking a bough or two, put the call to your lips and utter the challenge-note of a bull. With mad fury he leaves his mate and crashes through the forest towards you, and then—shoot him, or else stand clear. I have known this plan to be successfully carried out when moose have been started, and are in full flight; the imitation of a rival bull has brought the moose suddenly round to meet his doom ; and it is a very common practice for the Indian to adopt, when a moose answers but will not come to the call, and he has every reason to believe that he is already accompanied by a cow.

A few falls since I was in the woods with a companion and an excellent Indian, who is still at the head of his profession, John Williams. We were in a hunting district not containing many moose, being too much surrounded by roads and settlements, but very accessible from Halifax, and one which would always afford a few days’ hunting if the ground had not recently been disturbed. We were not much incumbered with baggage; the nature of our movements prevented our taking much into the wood beyond the actual necessaries, i.e., a small blanket apiece, which, rolled into a bundle, Indian fashion, and carried across the back by a strap passing over the chest and shoulders, contained the ammunition, a couple of pairs of worsted socks, brushes, combs, &c., and a few packages of tea, sugar, and such light and easily-stowed portions of the commissariat. The Indian carried in his bundle the heavier articles—the half dozen pounds of fat pork, about twice that amount of hard pilot bread, the small kettle with a couple of tin pint cups thrust inside, they in their turn being filled with butter, or salt and pepper, or perhaps lucifers—anything, in fact, which could find a place and fit in snugly ; and lastly, and as a matter of course, a capacious frying-pan, made more portable by unshipping the handle. A large American axe, its head cased in leather, passed through his belt, from which were suspended the broad hunting-knife in an ornamented moose-skin sheath, and the tobacco-pouch of otter or mink-skin. Our suits were all of the strong grey homespun of the country, an almost colourless material, and on that account, as well as for its tendency to dry quickly when wet, owing to its porosity, very valuable to the hunter as a universal cloth for every garment.

Thus accoutred, we marched through the forest in file, laying down our bundles now and then to follow recent moose-tracks which might cross our path, and to ascertain the whereabouts of the game with regard to the barrens towards which we were wending our way with the object of calling the moose. The previous night had been passed under the shelter of a grove of enormous hemlocks, where we had halted on our journey from the settlements, night overtaking us. All night the owls had hooted around our little primitive encampment—a sure sign of coming rain; and their melancholy predictions were this morning verified, for a damp, misty drizzle beat in our faces as we emerged from the forest on a grassy meadow, which stretched away in a long valley, and was dotted with stacks of wild meadow hay. It was one of those miniature woodland prairies which afford the settler such plentiful supplies for feeding his stock in winter, and which are the result of the labours of the once abounding beaver, and enduring monuments of its industry.

In crossing the meadows we came upon traces of a very recent struggle between a young moose and a bear : the bear had evidently taken advantage of the long grass to steal upon the moose, and take him at a disadvantage in the treacherous bog. The grass was much beaten down, and deep furrows in the black soil below showed how energetically the unfortunate moose had striven to escape from his powerful assailant. There was a broad track, plentifully strewed with moose hair, showing how the moose had struggled with the bear towards the woods, where no doubt the affair was ended, and the bear dined. The full-grown moose is far too powerful an animal to dread the attack of the bear; it is only the unprotected calf, separated from its parent, which is occasionally pounced upon.

We reached the barren that afternoon, wet and uncomfortable, and were right glad when a roaring fire rose up in front of the little gipsy-like camp, partly of cut bushes and partly of birch bark, which the Indian constructed for us in the middle. We did not care for the possibility of disturbing any stray moose that might be in the immediate neighbourhood; the wind was rising and chasing away the murky clouds from the northward, and there was no chance of calling that night, so we passed the afternoon in drying ourselves, and keeping up the fire, which was no easy matter, as the woods skirting the barren were at some distance, and the barren itself offered nothing but clumps of wet green bushes, moss-tufts, ground laurels, and rocks. The night was clear and frosty, as is generally the case after rain ; it was so cold that we could not sleep much, and our wood failed us. Once, on going out to search for some sticks, I heard a moose calling in the thick forest through which we were to proceed in the morning, in search of more distant hunting-grounds.

The prospect from our little grotto of bushes, as we breakfasted next morning, was charming; the tops of the maple-covered hills, which sloped down towards the barren on either side, were delicately tinged with warm brownish-red, deepened by the frost of the previous night; and the bushes which skirted a little lake in front of us, over which hung a stationary line of mist, were painted with every hue, warmed and gilded at their summits by the slanting sun-rays. There was the delicate rose-colour varying to blood-red and deep scarlet, of the smaller maples, which are always brightest in swampy low situations, and the bright golden of the birches, poplars, and beeches. Sometimes a maple was wholly painted with the darkest claret, whilst in another a branch or two were vermilion, and the rest of the foliage of vernal greenness.

The rank patches of rhodora were tinged with a light pinkish tint, a pretty contrast to the rich shining green leaves of the myrica growing with the former shrub in damp spots. The flora of the fall, comprising asters, golden rods and wild-everlastings were all out, encircling the pearly grey rocks which strewed the barren, and every bush was wreathed with lines and webs of little spiders, marked by the myriads of minute dew-drops with which they were strung. Gradually warmed by the rays of the sun when, overcoming the surrounding barrier of the forest, they poured over the whole face of the scene, the little barren sparkled like fairy-land, the morning resolving itself into one of those glorious days for which the fall of the year is noted; days when the light seems to bring out colours on objects which you would never see at other times; when all nature seems brightened up by the peculiar state of the atmosphere ; when the trees seem more beautiful, rocks more shapely, and water more pellucid; when the sky has a greater softness and depth than commonly, and one’s own feelings are in unison with all around.

On such a morning the clear, affecting notes of the hermit thrush seem more joyous than at his spring advent, and other lingering songsters—the white-throated sparrow, the red-breasted grosbeak, and the well-known robin—pour forth their strains as if in praise for the blessing of renewed summer life.

Our hunt through the neighbouring woods that forenoon was unsuccessful; all the tracks, though recent, showed that the moose had left the immediate vicinity. The “going” was bad, and, returning to camp, we determined to start immediately with our loads for some extensive barrens, of which the Indian knew, at a few miles’ distance.

Our path lay through a large evergreen forest, and the walking on soft feather-moss was most refreshing after the painful morning’s trudge over rocks and wind-falls. The ground was gently descending; and in the valley were little circular swamps and bogs where the firs showed evidences of the unhealthy situation by their scant foliage, and the profuse moss-beards which clung to them.

A dense covert of fern, coloured a golden brown in its autumnal decay, grew in the swamp: here and there a bunch of bright scarlet leaves of swamp-maple glowed amongst the colourless stems of rotted trees.

In situations like this the moose likes to dwell in the fall, and frequent tracks attested the very recent presence of these animals in the valley through which we were travelling. Here and there the moss was scraped up in barrows-full, and the dark soil beneath hollowed out in a pit, giving out a strongly offensive odour as we passed; in fact, the moose had, as Williams told us, only that morning passed, and we might come on them at any moment. We now travelled with great caution; any little blunder committed, such as a slight snap caused by stepping on a rotten stick, or grazing a gun-barrel against a tree-stem, was invested with a plausible appearance by the Indian, who would immediately apply the call to his lips, and utter a low grunt, as it were a moose walking through the woods. At last the forest opened ahead, the gloom of the pines gave place to brighter light, and we stood on the edge of the barren sought for. Below us lay the swamp through which we had followed the moose, and we had the satisfaction of seeing, on crossing the stagnant brook which separated it from our present position, the mud still circling where the animals had passed. They had just crossed it before us, and taken to the barren.

The barren, which was at some elevation above the swampy forest we had recently quitted, sloped from us in an undulating wilderness of tangled brakes and dead trees, whose tall, bleached forms reared themselves like ghosts in the fast approaching twilight. It was quite calm—a delightful evening for “calling”—and we disencumbered ourselves of the loads, and sat down in the bushes to smoke and converse in low tones until the moon should rise and mellow the twilight.

Everything was perfectly still, except the occasional tap of the woodpecker on the decayed trunk of some distant rampike. As the sun sank below the horizon, the gentle breeze gradually diminished, and now not a leaf on the poplar and maple bushes around us flutters.

“Now, John,” I whispered to the Indian, “it is almost time to try your voice. We will make the moose hear us to-night, if there are any in these woods. Ah! did yon hear that? Listen ”

We all heard it plainly—a heavy crash of branches on the barren right in front of us; then another, followed by a rush through the bushes of some evidently large animal; then came the call of the cow-moose, followed by the grunting of bulls.

“Two or three of ’em,” said John; “whole crew fighting in little swamp just ahead. Grand chance this. Put the bundles down behind the rock there, so as moose can’t see them, and look at your caps.”

It was just the time to commence calling—the daylight had quite died out, and the young moon, nearly half grown, shed an uncertain light over the gray rocks and bare gaunt rampikes of the barren. We moved on to a little knoll a few yards ahead, whence was obtained a view through the rocks and dead trees for over a hundred yards in the direction of the moose, and lay down a few paces apart in the thick bushes which grew some two or three feet high everywhere.

The Indian crouched behind a massive trunk near us, and we anxiously awaited his first challenge to the moose, which were in a swampy hollow in the barren, not more than 500 yards distant, though the thickly standing rampikes and rocks, and the unevenness of the ground, prevented us from seeing them. He seemed to wait long and hesitatingly ; so much would depend upon the skilfulness of his first call, and several times the bark trumpet was withdrawn from his lips before he made up his mind to the effort.

At length he called; softly, and with a slight quaver, the plaintive sound was drawn forth, apparently from the lowest parts of his throat, checked in the middle, then again resumed, and its prolonged cadences allowed gradually to die away. It was a masterly performance; and our pulses beat high as the echoes returned from the sides of the thick forest which skirted the barren, and we listened for some reply from the moose.

Then followed a prolonged crashing, as if a whole army of giants was forcing its way through the brittle rampikes; it seemed impossible that a moose could have caused such a tremendous uproar—then a pause, and the moose answered the call—Quoh! quofh! He was evidently close at hand, though still concealed by the closeness of the covert; and we were, moreover, lying crouched as flatly as possible on the ground, and behind a little rise in the barren, which intervened most conveniently. Here he remained for some moments, occasionally drawing his antlers with great rapidity and violence against the dead stems on either side, and making the brittle branches fly in all directions; then another advance, though with less noise, and his grunts became less frequent; at last, a dead stop, and not a sound for some moments. He was evidently becoming suspicious, not seeing the object of his desire on the barren before him where he had expected, for moose have a wonderful faculty of travelling through the woods towards a sound if only once heard. I have known them to come for miles, and straight as an arrow, to the exact spot where the Indian had been calling an hour or more previously, having left it in consequence of not hearing the answer.

There was a slight rustle just behind us, and, looking round, I perceived the Indian rapidly worming his way through the bushes, gliding like a snake. He beckoned with his hand for us to remain quiet, and I at once divined his object; he was making for the edge of the woods, some hundred yards or so from the direction of the moose. Presently a few loud snappings of dead branches, purposely broken by the Indian as soon as he had reached the covert, was followed by the well-counterfeited call. The ruse succeeded; the suspicions of the bull were allayed, and the horns were again dashed against the stems as he unhesitatingly advanced towards our ambush. At length we can plainly hear his footsteps, and the rustling of the little bushes; every now and then he utters a low, satisfied grunt to himself, as he winds up the ascent. Now our pulses and hearts beat so, that it becomes a wonder they do not scare the moose, and we grasp the stocks of our rifles tightly as we wait for his appearance. Here he comes! The moonlight just catches the polished surfaces of his great spreading horns; a black mountain seems to grow out of the barren in front, and the bull stands immediately before us, his gigantic proportions standing out in bold relief against the sky, and clouds of hot vapour circling from his expansive nostrils, as he pauses for a moment to gaze forward from the acquired elevation. He must see the glitter of the moonlight on our barrels as they are raised to the shoulder, but it is too late for retreat; the sharp cracks of the two rifles proclaim his doom, and as they are lowered the great moose falls heavily over, without a pace accomplished in retreat, instantaneously dead. Our wild yell of triumph was echoed by the Indian from the woods behind, who hastened to join us ; the echoes, so strangely and rudely evoked from the distant forest, gradually fade away, and all is again still, save where a distant crack marks the flight of the startled moose, the late comrades of our noble bull.

“Pretty handy on to five feet,” said John, as he with difficulty raised the ponderous head from the bushes, to display the breadth of the antlers; “that’s a great moose, old feller, that; hind-quarters weigh goin’ on for a hundred and fifty weight each; we have to get two or three smart hands to back him out.”

The night was now far advanced, and it was with well-earned satisfaction that we stretched ourselves in front of a roaring fire, wrapping our blankets tightly round us. Though frosty, it was clear and calm; we needed no camp, and John dragged up log after log of the dead dry timber, which was strewed in plentiful confusion over the barren, until we had a fire large enough to have roasted our moose whole. The kettle, filled from the brook below in the swamp, soon boiled, and after a refreshing cup and a biscuit a-piece, we finally tightened our blankets round our forms, and, with pipes in our mouths, gradually dozed off.

Towards the morning is the coldest time of the night, and I more than once awoke from the cold, and went on the barren for fresh fuel to supply the quickly-decaying embers. There was the same solemn stillness over the face of that wild scene : the moon was down long since, but a few brilliant streamers of the aurora played in the clear sky in the north, and by their light I could just discern the great dark form of the moose in the bushes, all covered with the thick rime frost, and guarded by two colossal stems, which pointed sternly at the victim with their whitened branches, as if to demand vengeance for the death of the forest monarch. At intervals the melancholy and deep-toned hoot of the eagle-owl came from the recesses of the woods, and at length the effect became so unbearingly solemn and mysterious, that I felt a relief on stepping back into our little circle, and blew the embers lustily until spires of flame seized hold of the fresh wood, and the brilliant fire-light shut out the sombreness of the dismal night scene.

The sun was long up, and shone brightly in our faces ere we awoke the next morning, and certain indistinct sounds of frying and savoury odours were mingled with the latter portions of our dreams.

“Come on, Capten,” said John; “come on, and eat some moose. This moose be very tender; little later in the fall not so good, though; soon get tough and black ”

It was excellent, not partaking of the rank musky flavour which later in the autumn pervades the whole carcase. John fried some liver for himself, and we all felt more inclined to bask out the day in the sun than to prepare for a start homewards. However, a couple of hours found us plodding through the forest, the Indian bearing across his shoulders the broad antlers, which necessitated great management to insinuate through the denser thickets. John, however, knew a lumberer’s path, leading out towards the settlement, and we soon had easy walking. Once or twice a stream must be crossed, and it was most interesting on such occasions to watch the ease and dexterity with which the Indian would fell a large tree to serve for a bridge, and, heavily burdened as he was, cross on the stem, lopping off the interposing branches as he proceeded, to prepare it for our passage. Poor Williams! no assistance could be procured at the settlement; and, as we left him and started home-

wards with our trophy, he had undertaken to retrace his steps alone to the carcase of the moose, and by degrees bring out every pound of the meat on his own back. And this feat he performed, though the distance was fully five miles; and the four quarters, exclusive of the head, skin, and the massive neck, would weigh more than five hundred pounds. We far from envied him his task and the long trudge in the lonely forest.