Reflections of a 
 Moose Hunter 
 
 By Joseph Stowe Seabury 
 
0^% 
 
 Class ^iViiiX 
 Book !_SiJt- 
 
 Gop^iightlS"- 
 
 COFVRIGHT DEPOSm 
 
REFLECTIONS 
 OF A MOOSE HUNTER 
 
Courtesy o/ Mr. C. J. Hawkins 
 
 For two hours Mr. Hawkins, the photographer, prevented this moose 
 from making shore. After several pictures were made of the bull swimming, 
 he was allowed to go ashore, where he immediately collapsed in the grass, 
 utterly exhausted from his compulsory exercise. This portrait was then 
 easily taken 
 
REFLECTIONS of a 
 MOOSE HUNTER 
 
 <iyf personal resume of the serious^ picturesque^ 
 and droll aspects of life in the moose country^ 
 with photographs by the author and others 
 
 ®y Joseph Stowe Seabury 
 
 PRIVATELY PRINTED 
 
9)^ 
 
 Copyright 
 
 by Joseph Stowe Seabury 
 
 1921 
 
 THOMAS TODD COMPANY 
 
 'Printers 
 
 BOSTON • MASSACHUSETTS 
 
 0)CI.A614861 
 
To 
 
 MOSES DAVIDSON 
 C. HALE REID 
 
 AND 
 
 ROBERT ROSS 
 
 three sturdy, skillful woodsmen, who have 
 conducted me on many happy journeys 
 through the silent forests of the north, 
 this little work is cordially inscribed. 
 
INDEX 
 
 PAGE 
 
 To Whom It May Concern 9 
 
 The Birth of a Notion 10 
 
 A Tragedy of the Woods 14 
 
 The Moose Crop of New Brunswick 16 
 
 Little Helps for the Beginner 24 
 
 73 Asked — 44 Bid 26 
 
 From Whence Cometh My Help 32 
 
 Dialogue 23 
 
 What the Stars Did 37 
 
 The Moose 40 
 
 A Tribute 41 
 
 My Mountain 46 
 
 Many Are Called, but Few Will Come 47 
 
 Tout Seul 5^ 
 
 The One Defence 67 
 
APOLOGIA 
 
 A T a glance these pages are seen to include a wide 
 / \ diversity of themes and treatment. Without 
 ^ J^ apparent sequence or provocation I have jumped 
 from the substantial to the trivial, from the sublime to 
 the jocose. Facts, fancies, events, and pleasantries are 
 jumbled together and displayed in promiscuous verse and 
 prose. However, I am sure the sportsmen who visit the 
 woods and waterways appreciate these extremities of in- 
 terests and find them to be the sum and substance of ex- 
 hilarating days and cozy evenings. This little book, for 
 the most part, is nothing more or less than a hetero- 
 geneous collection of personal impressions and simple 
 achievements jotted down in the distant hunting camps of 
 New Brunswick, where visions, however superficial, are 
 plenty and constant. While many have met with greater 
 successes in big game shooting than I am able here to 
 record, few perhaps would bother their heads to tabulate 
 such trifling occurrences and casual conceptions as I have 
 assembled. 
 
 My annual excursions to the silent forests and the 
 rippling rivers of Canada have given instruction, sport, 
 amusement, and rest. I have been my own bookkeeper, 
 so to speak, and entered on my ledger the receipts of joy- 
 ful experience. The investment has proved a wise one ; 
 I have cut my coupons of happiness and health, and each 
 year extra dividends are declared. 
 
 For my photographs I claim no credit, but to the 
 neophyte they may indicate what any one can do with a 
 little pocket kodak. Such results as are achieved by Mr. 
 Chauncey J. Hawkins, the big game photographer, few 
 of us may hope to equal, and to him I am grateful for the 
 use of one or two views. y g g 
 
 Weston, Massachusetts 
 May, 1 92 I. 
 
REFLECTIONS OF A MOOSE HUNTER 
 
 Superb head taken in 1917 ; spread, 64^ inches 
 
 Widest known New Brunswick moose head, shot 1917- W idth, 72 inches 
 
 8 
 
TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN 
 
 TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN 
 
 TO him who on occasions goes for business or for 
 fun to the quiet forest places where the little 
 rivers run, and the moose call from the barren, 
 and the spotted ospreys make the windy, hissing noises as 
 they dip across the lake; where a million stars are hidden 
 by a shaft of northern light, and the gentle winds at sun- 
 set are the organ chords of night, this collection is com- 
 mended as a message from the land where visions glow 
 like sunshine — and he will understand. 
 
 My text and illustrations are designed to represent 
 the pleasures, the successes, the mirth and discontent, the 
 ecstasy of mountains — with autumn coming round, the 
 atmosphere of color, the symphony of sound. Every 
 gladsome inspiration, every fancy, great or small, comes 
 on when one goes forth alone, or comes on not at all. If 
 poets, then, must saunter to write about a bird, you too 
 must saunter or, forsooth, you will not grasp a word. 
 
 So, these my simple episodes, impressions and delights, 
 gathered and recorded In the woods on autumn nights, 
 are for him and only him who loves the moose tracks in 
 the snow and the solitary places of the forest where they 
 go. 
 
REFLECTIONS OF A MOOSE HUNTER 
 
 THE BIRTH OF A NOTION 
 
 I WAS a lad in my early teens when the great inspira- 
 tion came. The brief holidays in what I loved to 
 consider the wilds of Maine were at an end, and I 
 sat in the Pullman gazing thoughtfully out the window, 
 picturing again and again the few deer I had seen on this 
 my first visit to the woods. Like most boys I then began 
 to feel keenly the delight in wild things, the mysterious 
 wonder of life in the back country, and the desire to 
 return again and penetrate those desolate places. Re- 
 hearsing and exaggerating the tales of the guide, em- 
 ployed for me on two or three occasions, I told myself 
 little wild stories of would-be adventure in February 
 drifts, trapping bear and shooting big deer with heavy 
 antlers. That bear hibernated and deer were protected 
 by law in that particular month of the year, I had yet to 
 learn. 
 
 It was late September. The procession of summer 
 tourists had stopped its noisy parade through the Range- 
 ley Lake region and was turning back to home and office. 
 How I hated their careless, gregarious chatter about golf 
 and cards and steamboat trips. I held aloof and believed 
 myself very superior. Did none of them see the joy of 
 striking off alone with an old backwoodsman to sleep in a 
 distant log camp and at evening watch the fishhawks and 
 the deer? They seemed to miss the true significance of 
 the country; they failed to recognize the most conspicuous 
 pleasures of the woods; they pursued the same interests 
 common to Manchester or Scituate. Frightfully stupid 
 and silly people ! I, in my wisdom, had found what I 
 
 lO 
 
THE BIRTH OF A NOTION 
 
 called the real purpose of the existence of forests; a home 
 was thereby provided for wild birds and big game. These 
 woods, therefore, gave discerning folk a chance to live 
 along with nature and observe her mysteries and beauties. 
 I had seen some deer, and a track in the mud that the 
 guide said was made by a moose! I think I was stuck on 
 myself. But I was quite happy. 
 
 A gentleman of about fifty, intelligent and agreeable, 
 seated in the chair next to me, shattered my carefully 
 built castles by asking whether I had been in the woods. 
 With bold confidence and a thrill of boyish delight, I 
 launched forth on a description of my rare and wild ex- 
 periences with a guide on an overnight trip miles and miles 
 from the hotel. We had seen some deer and a moose 
 track! The gentleman appeared deeply interested and 
 after quietly asking several further questions, to which I 
 made prolonged and graphic replies, I ventured to inquire 
 if he had ever visited the wilds of Maine. Then it was 
 that I first heard straight dope from a man after my own 
 heart, a man from the city who had done the big thing. 
 Though a dozen (or two) years have slipped by since 
 that meeting on the Boston train, I can recall his story 
 almost word for word. 
 
 "Every September," he said, in a tone of simple sin- 
 cerity, as if I and not the other returning vacationists 
 could appreciate, "I leave the business and society of New 
 York, and bury myself In the wilds of New Brunswick on 
 the Miramlchi. For eleven months I slave and worry in 
 Wall Street, and respond to the social demands of city 
 and seashore life, and for one month I make an utter 
 change of the weary program. No other solution of the 
 vacation problem is possible for me. Golf at the club, a 
 motor trip with the family, and week-end visits in the 
 
 II 
 
REFLECTIONS OF A MOOSE HUNTER 
 
 country are all well and good, but they don't give the 
 complete re-creation. To be truly rested up, I must 
 leave behind me the ticker, the telephone, newspapers, 
 motors, good clothes, razors, and all. Then I am free to 
 rest and hunt and forget. All my affairs I get in shape, 
 pack up the old duffel, and slide out for a month with the 
 big game in the Canadian wilds." 
 
 To say I was now all ears is mildly putting it. And 
 my delightful friend rambled on with a sort of indiffer- 
 ent leisure, as if his theories and episodes were too precious 
 to put much stress upon. 
 
 "Two friendly woodsmen — guide and cook — meet me 
 at the little station on the Miramichi, and the change 
 begins. From then on I listen to different talk, see dif- 
 ferent sights, and do different things." 
 
 From his pocket he drew a little notebook, much worn 
 and filled with dim scribbllngs. "Here's my diary. I 
 jot down Impressions, observations, and records of game 
 encountered. For Instance: 'September 17, 6 moose, 4 
 caribou, 6 deer, fox. September 18, 5 moose, 3 deer, 
 bear, eagles, etc' " And then he told of the trophies 
 hanging on the walls of his country house on Long Is- 
 land, and the satisfying success of the hunt that now had 
 come to a close. 
 
 All the way to Boston he talked and I listened. When 
 It was time to separate, he took me warmly by the hand 
 and said something about the pleasures of telling his story 
 to one who appreciates. He said, too, I think, that I 
 would be just the sort of man some day who would love 
 such a trip to the wilderness. In that I felt he was right. 
 
 As the shooting seasons have come and gone, how many 
 times I have thought of this agreeable New Yorker, who 
 helped guide my ship of sport up the wild streams in the 
 
 12 
 
THE BIRTH OF A NOTION 
 
 MiramichI Country of New Brunswick. It followed that 
 on a dozen or more occasions I have slipped away, as he 
 did, to see the golden colors of the autumn woods and 
 look in upon the big game of those distant haunts. Who 
 he was I never knew. On visits to the Province, I have 
 made inquiries, but no one could tell anything definite 
 concerning a rich Wall Street banker who came each year 
 to hunt the Miramichi waters. He may have died, or 
 perhaps he turned his attention to other game fields. I 
 wonder whether he has ever seen my stupid things on 
 moose and deer! If he gets hold of this expose perhaps 
 he will turn up. 
 
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 Hi 
 
 
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 H 
 
 
 mw^Bm 
 
 ^^^^^^^^^V; i^M' ■ ■ 
 
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 J <^y jH^^P^^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 
 
 
 HH5IHISI 
 
 H 
 
 ^1^^ s 
 
 Briiiii^ 
 
 To whom this book is inscribed 
 
 13 
 
REFLECTIONS OF A MOOSE HUNTER 
 
 A TRAGEDY OF THE WOODS 
 
 I 
 
 Through the pale tamaracks 
 
 There are caribou tracks, 
 Where the herd has gone down for a cruise ; 
 
 And from here to the Pole 
 
 It's a hell of a hole 
 In the vale of the River Renous. 
 
 2 
 
 A little old man — 
 
 So the story once ran — 
 Packed in with supplies and some booze, 
 
 And along went his son, 
 
 Who carried the gun, 
 For a hunt on the River Renous. 
 
 3 
 
 In a fortnight the lad, 
 
 Looking dreadfully bad, 
 Stumbled into a camp with the news 
 
 That his father was lost, 
 
 Just after they crossed 
 Some branch on the Upper Renous. 
 
 4 
 He was nervous and numb, 
 So they gave him some rum ; 
 
 And the Jacks from the lumbering crews 
 Were willing to go 
 In the wind and the snow 
 
 To search on the River Renous. 
 
 14 
 
A TRAGEDY OF THE WOODS 
 
 5 
 
 No word could they bring! 
 
 'Twas a pitiful thing 
 That a man should go hunting and lose 
 
 His way in the woods, 
 
 With only the goods 
 That would do him a week on Renous. 
 
 6 
 
 On November the fourth 
 
 A storm from the north 
 Brought them back to their work with the crews; 
 
 The drifts were too deep 
 
 To look for lost sheep 
 In the vale of the River Renous. 
 
 7 
 
 At last came the day 
 
 Towards the middle of May 
 Some trappers came down in canoes, 
 
 And reported they found 
 
 In the desolate ground 
 Several leagues to the north of Renous, 
 
 The skull of a man — 
 
 And a buUethole ran 
 (The size that the boy used to use) 
 
 Clear through the man's head — 
 
 And so he was dead 
 Before he was lost on Renous. 
 
 i5 
 
REFLECTIONS OF A MOOSE HUNTER 
 
 THE MOOSE CROP OF NEW BRUNSWICK 
 
 FIFTEEN thousand people will shoot in New Bruns- 
 wick this fall. Twenty thousand more people will 
 take care of them. From the mere fact that game 
 abounds, employment is given and money is spent. Rail- 
 ways, steamship lines, hotels, camps, guides, teamsters, 
 and the treasury are indebted directly to game for big 
 profits. Do we wonder, then, that the game laws are 
 carefully contrived? 
 
 We know the number of licenses granted and the num- 
 ber of animals shot and reported, but who can estimate the 
 residents who shoot continually or occasionally without 
 official permit? Neither the vigilant warden nor the in- 
 quisitive sportsman will ever learn the amount of big 
 game annually killed by back farmers, who wander off 
 at will to their familiar hunting ground at any and all 
 times of year. When beef is high, and venison is waiting 
 in the adjoining wood, we can hardly blame the poor 
 farmer, who, doubtless, is thinking more of his needy 
 family than the sport of the chase. Lumber crews, pot 
 hunters, licensed sportsmen, and well-paid guides should 
 be and are more closely watched, and it seems for them 
 largely that the laws are made. In spite of this illegal 
 shooting, indefinite in its extent, the game increases. Legis- 
 lation allows for it. Statutes enacted are based on re- 
 ports of the legally killed and the living numbers remain- 
 ing, not on the unknown dead. 
 
 We New Englanders are fortunate in having close at 
 hand a vast hunting country well stocked with moose. To 
 the lone hunter, moving slowly through unbroken spruce 
 
 i6 
 
THE MOOSE CROP OF NEW BRUNSWICK 
 
 forest and wild barren lands — unspeakably still — the 
 wooded world seems vast, though the Province occupies 
 less area than the State of Maine. The habitat of the 
 moose extends from Nova Scotia across the entire con- 
 tinent to the timber line of western Alaska, but nowhere 
 is the species more abundant in an equal area than in New 
 Brunswick. It is the best and the nearest. Sportsmen 
 may board the evening train at Boston and reach any 
 one, of fifty good hunting grounds before the next sun 
 sets. Every portion has been surveyed and hunted, and 
 innumerable lumber crews at one time or another in the 
 past hundred years have cut the marketable pine and 
 spruce. While shooting, fishing, logging, and mining 
 continue from year to year, the push of civilization is 
 not a serious menace to game. The lands for the most 
 part are owned or controlled by the government, the rail- 
 roads, and the lumber companies. Your big game shoot- 
 ing license, costing fifty dollars and allowing one bull 
 moose and two deer, permits you to trespass over and 
 hunt the entire Province. No lands are posted. 
 
 For forty odd years moose have been more or less 
 abundant in New Brunswick. The oldest residents state 
 that in the 6o's and 70's, moose as well as deer were 
 very scarce in the district, because of their constant 
 slaughter by both Indians and wolves in the earlier settle- 
 ment days. Hides and meat were of great value to the 
 Indians of a century and more ago, who, with neither 
 game laws nor thought of the future to check them, 
 hunted down bulls, cows, and calves alike. But in recent 
 years, thanks to those efficient game laws and the peren- 
 nial feeding grounds, the game is everywhere to be found. 
 
 To the novnce and connoisseur alike, it is astonishing 
 to observe what great numbers of moose there are in the 
 
 17 
 
REFLECTIONS OF A MOOSE HUNTER 
 
 Province. The lake shores and the old roads are still 
 trodden with fresh signs the summer through, while 
 across the early winter snows the woodsman sees the 
 same familiar network of trails zig-zagging up and down 
 the ridges. In skillful hands you will sight the game it- 
 
 Straight goods 
 
 self at all seasons under reasonable conditions of woods 
 and weather. Though tracks are sure and helpful tell- 
 tales, it does not mean you will straightway see your 
 moose. It is more likely that you will be discovered and 
 forthwith avoided before you learn that game is near. 
 In order to get a proper conception of the quantities of 
 moose in the Province, some well-frequented feeding 
 ground should be visited in summer. We know that half 
 
 18 
 
THE MOOSE CROP OF NEW BRUNSWICK 
 
 a dozen domestic cattle can convert a green pasture into 
 a veritable cow yard in one short season; but when a 
 thousand deep moose-leads converge to the lake and the 
 entire shore line is trodden down like a public highway, 
 it is hardly necessary to see the game itself or consult the 
 government reports to be convinced that the actual num- 
 bers are very large. The head waters of trout and salmon 
 streams, in some instances, are so continually disturbed 
 by moose that the fishing for some distances below is 
 utterly ruined. On a warm morning in July of last year 
 a reliable woodsman counted fifty-seven individuals at a 
 lonely lake in the interior of New Brunswick, and in Oc- 
 tober, when the weather was cold and the feed poor, I 
 sighted seventeen at one time on a large dead-water. Con- 
 sidering the relative seasons, one report is of as much 
 significance as the other. 
 
 By referring to the table herewith, it will readily be 
 seen that the official statistics of moose recorded, prior, 
 of course, to the natural post-war revival, indicate a general 
 decrease. The reports of deer taken are here included 
 to show the comparison in big game conditions : 
 
 
 Moose 
 
 Deer 
 
 Game Licenses 
 
 Non-Resident 
 Licenses 
 
 Resident 
 Licenses 
 
 License 
 Receipts 
 
 191 1 
 
 2,057 
 
 2,260 
 
 9,776 
 
 507 
 
 9,269 
 
 45.671 
 
 I9I2 
 
 1,854 
 
 3,061 
 
 10,270 
 
 518 
 
 9,75^ 
 
 47,026 
 
 1913 
 
 1,501 
 
 2,075 
 
 8,574 
 
 490 
 
 8,084 
 
 50,048 
 
 I9I4 
 
 1,737 
 
 2,705 
 
 8,541 
 
 382 
 
 8,159 
 
 44,673 
 
 I9I5 
 
 1,129 
 
 2,353 
 
 7,948 
 
 381 
 
 7,567 
 
 42,764 
 
 I9I6 
 
 1,511 
 
 2,826 
 
 8,363 
 
 453 
 
 7,910 
 
 44.324 
 
 I9I7 
 
 No Record 
 
 >i,479 
 
 373 
 
 12,106 
 
 40,626 
 
 I9I8 
 
 613 
 
 1,086 
 
 8,589 
 
 194 
 
 8,395 
 
 24,7'i 
 
 I9I9 
 
 1,430 
 
 2,416 
 
 15,118 
 
 469 
 
 14,649 
 
 49-475 
 
 1920 
 
 ',596 
 
 2,844 
 
 15,676 514 
 
 15,162 
 
 56,024 
 
 19 
 
REFLECTIONS OF A MOOSE HUNTER 
 
 The diminishing figures of moose reported before 1 9 1 8, 
 due in some degree to the demands and effects of the war, 
 are not altogether a sure indication of a gradual shortage 
 in shootable bulls. Nevertheless, since cows and calves 
 are protected, the bull moose is universally sought and 
 killed. So persistently is he hunted, that by the time his 
 antlers attain a respectable development, his escape is 
 doubtful. The number of animals annually shot fluctu- 
 ates not wholly by reason of the inevitable increase or 
 decrease of the species, but also by such influences as 
 weather conditions, food supply, lumber operations, and 
 natural enemies. Deer and moose are perceptibly more 
 abundant after a mild winter, while severe weather and 
 deep snows destroy some of the younger and weaker in- 
 dividuals, put the animals in poor shape for propagation, 
 and hinder the proper development of both antler and 
 body. Forest fires for the time being drive game to other 
 feeding grounds, but fresh and tender shoots through- 
 out these newly fertilized lands bring them back in even 
 greater numbers. The best hunting sections are found 
 today in territories which were swept by fire three to 
 eight years ago. Lumber cuttings affect the prevalence of 
 big game in much the same way. Great operations, 
 blasting and promiscuous shooting by lumber and mining 
 crews keep the game away from these regions, w^hich 
 make excellent feeding grounds when the new growth 
 has begun. Every experienced hunter knows the thrilling 
 prospect of visiting old lumber cuttings and camp clear- 
 ings. 
 
 As the bull grows older and more experienced, he ap- 
 parently becomes conscious of the prize he carries and 
 retreats to distant haunts seldom visited by his human 
 enemy. From published and verbal reports, it is evident 
 
 20 
 
THE MOOSE CROP OF NEW BRUNSWICK 
 
 that big heads are not as common as In past years, though 
 the toll of this year's kill is yet to be revealed. It is 
 stated on good authority that "allowing one calf a year, 
 after the cows are two years old, fifty cow moose pro- 
 tected for eight years would represent a total of fifteen 
 hundred animals." In spite of the annual slaughter and 
 other destructive causes, there appear to be more moose — 
 that is, more cow moose — each year in the Province. 
 But, more cows, more bulls for the future. 
 
 We have no knowledge of any New Brunswick moose 
 head which can equal in actual size the 72-inch specimen 
 taken on the upper Nepisiguit Waters in 1917 by Lezar 
 Russell, a native of Bathurst. The points are twenty- 
 seven in number, and it will be seen by the accompany- 
 ing illustration that the longest prongs and the blades 
 themselves stretch out in nearly a horizontal position, 
 giving the unusual width. This can be considered neither 
 a uniform nor a relatively interesting specimen, and is 
 inferior to several well-known heads of lesser measure- 
 ment, among them the Restigouche trophy — 64I inches — 
 pictured on page 8. For ten years Dr. W. L. Munroe, 
 of Providence, Rhode Island, held the record for the 
 Province. His moose, measuring 68^ inches when shot 
 in 1907, is more symmetrical and in general a finer speci- 
 men than the Russell head. The largest known moose 
 head in the world, now in the possession of the Field 
 Columbian Museum in Chicago, was shot on the Kenai 
 Peninsula in 1889. This is a massive affair, running to 
 78^ inches in spread and carrying thirty-six points. 
 
 In judging the value of a moose head, there are several 
 points to be considered in addition to the mere spread of 
 horns, which is the widest distance between the tip ends of 
 corresponding prongs. The judge must also observe the 
 
 21 
 
REFLECTIONS OF A MOOSE HUNTER 
 
 weight, number, and length of prongs, width and thick- 
 ness of palms, development of brow antlers, diameter 
 and circumference of beam, and the general symmetry, 
 color, and condition. To determine the width of antlers, 
 a steel tape should be used and the line should be hori- 
 zontal. Diagonal measurements are considered unoffi- 
 cial, but if corresponding tines are not in evidence, the 
 tape should run from the points that have the nearest 
 relation, letting the necessary diagonal line stand as the 
 result. Some authorities maintain that the fair and rea- 
 sonable method is to take the widest distance between two 
 vertical lines through which the head may pass in its 
 natural position. 
 
 The history of a head should be known to give au- 
 thenticity to the dimensions claimed. Better still, the 
 skull and horns should be preserved unmounted. If ex- 
 hibited in this way, it is possible to detect any split or 
 wedge in the skull, a devnce which throws the antlers out 
 of their former plane, giving several inches gain in the 
 aggregate. A treatment of moose horns, which is wholly 
 beyond detection, is the use of a rod and turn-buckle 
 forced between the blades when the head is green. The 
 buckle is turned and the pressure increased every day or 
 two for several months until the head is dry and its posi- 
 tion fixed. When the apparatus is removed, the spread in 
 the meantime has increased — and we have a "record 
 head" ready for the market. Tampering with big moose 
 heads to make them bigger is a practice which cannot be 
 too strongly condemned. There was a time when trophies 
 were bought and sold in an active market, bringing good 
 prices, to decorate hotels, restaurants, and even private 
 houses; but in recent years the demand has slackened, 
 fortunately, until today a mounted specimen is of little 
 
 22 
 
THE MOOSE CROP OF NEW BRUNSWICK 
 
 value except to the sportsman who shot and owns it. Not 
 long since a splendid head fetched eighteen dollars in 
 the open trade, which is little more than a gift when we 
 consider that the taxidermist bill alone came to forty dol- 
 lars. 
 
 The sad and unnecessary disappearance of bison and 
 elk has been to us a good lesson. But for the laws, moose 
 in turn would pass. This species of vast antiquity, the 
 largest game animal on the continent, is receiving com- 
 mendable protection. Across the border, Maine closed 
 the moose lid from 1914 until 1919, when there was 
 allowed one week of shooting. And over these near-by 
 stretches of wild and wonderful timber lands, uninter- 
 rupted only by wilder lakes and more wonderful streams, 
 our children's children will go moose hunting. 
 
 The poet counts his measured feet, 
 And finds the sentiment profuse, 
 
 But feels the sense is incomplete 
 
 Without a word to rhyme with " moose." 
 
 23 
 
REFLECTIONS OP A MOOSE HUNTER 
 
 LITTLE HELPS FOR THE BEGINNER 
 
 1. When calling moose and you find yourself at all 
 
 timid, work around stealthily to windward of 
 the approaching bull and light a Fatima. 
 
 2. In writing the account of your trip for publication 
 
 in a magazine, refrain from alluding to the 
 moose as the "Monarch of the Forest," be- 
 cause I have already used the term. 
 
 3. If, in tra\'eling at random through the wild wood- 
 
 lands, you become confused and believe your- 
 self to be lost, return to camp with all possible 
 haste for an ample supply of food and blankets. 
 
 4. The easiest and cheapest way to avoid the mice, and 
 
 to rid yourself of the dirty blankets, puffs, and 
 boughs — together with the livestock therein — is 
 to return to Brooklyn and sit on the piazza. 
 
 5. If you hear a cow moose calling from a distance, 
 
 make sure no bumble bees or mosquitoes are 
 about before you become too hopeful of excite- 
 ment. 
 
 6. Take complete and accurate notes of the episodes 
 
 the guides tell, so that on your return you may 
 edit a book entitled, "The Bull of the North 
 Woods." 
 
 7. When watching the fishhawks in the heavens, and 
 
 it is suddenly necessary for you to follow your 
 guide along a slippery log over a wide, turbu- 
 lent ri\er, keep your eye sagaciously on the 
 birds. 
 
 24 
 
LITTLE HELPS FOR THE BEGINNER 
 
 lO. 
 
 If a faithful moose hunter and you want especially 
 to encounter a large bull, you will be sure to 
 do so, provided you shoot a small one first. 
 
 When your snap-shots are developed, you will doubt- 
 less be able to discern, in two or three of the 
 prints, tiny black specks in the middle distance. 
 If you are sure these dots are not imperfections 
 in the paper, it is probable they are the por- 
 traits of the moose you took at close range. 
 
 In case you are particularly opposed to profanity, 
 and also happen to be troubled with deafness, 
 I can give the names of several good guides. 
 
 In following the chase the utmost cau- 
 tion at all times should be exercised, lest 
 the very object of your search suddenly 
 approaches to attack you unawares 
 
 25 
 
REFLECTIONS OF A MOOSE HUNTER 
 
 73 ASKED — 44 BID 
 
 WE were encamped on the South Branch of the 
 Renous River, forty-five miles from the rail- 
 road at Boiestown, New Brunswick, and 
 thirty-four from Holtville, the nearest settlement. Bob 
 and I pulled out early on this clear, cool morning — Sep- 
 tember 1 6, 1 9 19 — to hunt the Fowler Dead-Waters, which 
 are small, elongated lakes, characteristic of the northern 
 wilds. Such desolate bodies of water, with grassy shores 
 and scattered deadwood, surrounded by the typical spruce 
 barrens and hardwood ridges, make good moose hunting 
 in the early season. Throughout the summer and well 
 into the warm weather of late September, the game resort 
 to such places for food and for protection from the flies. 
 On the previous day we visited Big Fowler, so-called, 
 and sighted nothing in the water. It was too cold. To- 
 day we would push up in the direction of Benton Lake — 
 still on the Renous — with the hope of getting a moose in 
 the low lands bordering the stream. We jumped two 
 deer in a swale en route to a barren at the inlet, and at 
 11.30 A.M. we started to cross the barren. A spike-horn 
 buck, oblivious of our presence, was feeding on the 
 hardback at very close range. Because we needed meat 
 in camp I shot the deer, and we proceeded to dress him 
 off, hang up the quarters, and boil the kettle. After lunch 
 and the usual noontime rest, we pushed on toward the 
 deep spruce forest, carpeted with moss, sometimes known 
 as black ground. Not 200 yards from the spot where the 
 deer was killed, and the fire kindled, we heard the coughs 
 and grunts of a bull, and almost immediately, as we moved 
 
 26 
 
73 ASKED — 44 BID 
 
 cautiously through the big trees, we sighted the dark form 
 about twenty yards directly ahead. The animal evidently 
 had been lying down, and now, disturbed by our approach, 
 stood in a quartering position, looking fiercely in our direc- 
 tion. The wind was well in our faces, and therefore 
 there was no danger of his getting our scent. It was ap- 
 parent to both of us that the moose suspected he was be- 
 ing interrupted by another of his own kind, and his 
 continued grunts meant nothing less than a greeting or a 
 challenge. The antlers looked very large and white as 
 the sunshine, filtering through the trees, brought them out 
 conspicuously. Without doubt, it was a good head and 
 the first of any consequence I had seen on this trip. 
 
 The old confusing question arose in my mind — the 
 problem that must have instantaneous solution. Every 
 sportsman goes through such a brief period of uncertainty 
 and knows how vital it is, since he is allowed one moose, 
 and only one. Here it was but the second day of the 
 open season; I was to hunt this vast country for a fort- 
 night longer; moose were plenty and I stood a good chance 
 of sighting a better head; but on two previous occasions 
 I "passed up" good specimens, only to go home eventually 
 empty handed. From both sweet and bitter experience I 
 knew I must act. Little original maxims, silly but true, 
 flashed through my confused brain, like: "Nothing comes 
 to him who waits," and "Shoot now, or forever hold 
 your piece." So I shot, believing that a bird in the hand 
 was best. The bull lunged forward with a muffled roar, 
 and before he could make much progress I fired a second 
 time, which brought him to the ground in a state of final 
 collapse. 
 
 As we advanced to look down upon the great, struggling 
 body, a third bullet hastened the end. To me the moose 
 
 27 
 
REFLECTIONS OF A MOOSE HUNTER 
 
 did look a splendid specimen, but perhaps no finer, in 
 character, size, and condition, than a thousand other 
 trophies that have fallen to a thousand other rifles. With 
 loud and eager exclamations we examined the various de- 
 tails of usual interest to sportsman and guide. The frame 
 was exceedingly heavy, the body in prime condition, the 
 bell large and fleshy but not long, and the horns well 
 matched and even, carrying twenty-two points, with a total 
 spread of forty-four inches. 
 
 In an instant, so to speak, the annual hope of a record 
 head was shattered. Another season's opportunity had 
 come and gone, and another average pair of antlers was 
 the measure of my success. Few sportsmen go forth to 
 hunt the Cervus Alces without the inherent hope of a 
 record-breaking specimen in number of points and meas- 
 urement of spread. We may count many moose in the 
 course of an autumn hunt, and truly believe we see some 
 
 Good specimens taken on Renous Waters, 1919, 50-inch and 44-inch, re- 
 spectively. Notice how the corresponding points of right-hand head turn 
 in. If they had stretched out, as in the other head, the measurement would 
 have been six inches wider 
 
 28 
 
73 ASKED — 44 BID 
 
 enviable horns, but what an infinitesimal percentage are 
 blessed with prize-winning results! 
 
 In the achievement of success, I am convinced that 
 mere skill is not the potent factor. It is chance. In the 
 art of calling, there can be no skill in the selection of 
 individuals who may answer and come; in still-hunting 
 
 
 
 
 ^ 
 
 RK^^vja 
 
 HB 
 
 '^I^mP 
 
 
 MP» 
 
 ^^^^3 
 
 ^^vl 
 
 Warn 
 
 ^^ 
 
 
 ^M 
 
 
 
 w^ 
 
 •- ^3 
 
 /a " ^B 
 
 ■P 
 
 ^^s^ 
 
 1 'y^ 
 
 Br^ 
 
 Lyg^j^, 
 
 Jm tR.^ i^fi-f'"j I'ii 
 
 JuH 
 
 ■■■1 
 
 
 Hf 
 
 ^^^^B^yb^fc.^ 
 
 
 m 
 
 Bob Ross literally in the act of calling a 
 bull which appeared across the barren, but 
 too far distant to be visible in this view 
 
 the sportsman takes or leaves whatever he happens to in- 
 tercept within his path of travel, and a track in the snow 
 gives no certain indication of the size of antlers the ani- 
 mal carries. Some of the keenest and best-known ex- 
 ponents of big game shooting have never been credited 
 with excessively large heads. They have hunted wisely 
 
 29 
 
REFLECTIONS OF A MOOSE HUNTER 
 
 and continuously, with the result that the rare opportunity 
 never came. To secure merely a moose, or any game in 
 fact, skill, patience, judgment, and marksmanship are first 
 of all imperative, but there can be no such thing as ability 
 to uncover the big head. It is luck. 
 
 On this particular morning, I started forth, as on scores 
 of previous mornings, hoping, of course, that I would 
 encounter a "73-inch moose." But it so happened I 
 chanced upon my "44." It is true a hunter, for example, 
 may know a large bull moose frequents a certain ground, 
 and forthwith, at the proper time, lies in wait and slays 
 the game — presumably identical with the one previously 
 seen — but even in such an instance, the dimensions until 
 the kill are problematical. I think of skill as meaning 
 cautious hunting or good marksmanship. If you bag a 
 great number of birds, you are a skillful shot, but if 
 you don't meet with any, it does not indicate you are in- 
 expert. 
 
 On one occasion, in September, 19 13, my guides re- 
 ported that in the region of a certain lake a moose carry- 
 ing a very large head had been sighted several times in 
 the late summer. It was surely a record-breaker, they 
 said, and very much worth looking up. Early in the sea- 
 son we proceeded hopefully towards the lake, only to meet 
 en route two natives from a distant settlement, who were 
 laden with horns and scalp of a freshly killed moose. The 
 lads had shot the animal on the shore of the lake for which 
 we were headed, and the antlers appeared to my men to 
 tally with the great moose we were expecting to slay. The 
 horns carried twenty-four points and measured from tip 
 to tip 59^ inches. Though neither handsome in form 
 nor phenomenal in size, it was a good catch and above 
 the average. In this case it was not luck that the men ^0/ 
 
 30 
 
73 ASKED — 44 BID 
 
 the moose, but It would have been luck had the head ex- 
 ceeded the record. 
 
 When all is said and done, the moose is never a thing 
 of graceful beauty. The antelope, whitetail, and wapiti 
 are beautiful. Since a moose is a moose and the margin 
 of comely grace is therefore limited, there are some of us 
 who prefer excessive size to comparative beauty. The 
 beast is of Old World ancestry and peculiar to wild 
 northern timberlands. The largest game animal of the 
 continent I like to think of In terms of great proportions. 
 There is little that Is delicate and tender about the re- 
 gions he inhabits; they are vast. Immense, boundless, al- 
 most violent in character and appearance. The mighty 
 lord of such places I look upon as necessarily big. When 
 a moose is reported, the first question Is, "How large?" 
 
 A sportsman states in all frankness that he prefers a 
 decorative, uniform specimen to one of great size. But all 
 the same, if the choice came between a "fair 73" and a 
 "superb 44," I believe I can guess which he would take. 
 He volunteers the desire for the smaller trophy because 
 he knows the bigger one is a remote possibility. It would be 
 too much like the dreams of a child to place the wish too 
 strong. And we sportsmen have put away childish things. 
 
 31 
 
REFLECTIONS OF A MOOSE HUNTER 
 
 FROM WHENCE COMETH MY HELP 
 
 (A Sonnet) 
 (^Set to music h John H. Densmore) 
 
 Since last I trod these fairy woods and wild, 
 
 The snows and bitter blasts have beaten hard, 
 With howling utterance, against the filed 
 
 And phantomed firs; and yet, behold, unmarred 
 And beautiful they stand, triumphant — fared 
 
 The stronger for the tempests; now their forms 
 They hold erect and sturdy, full prepared 
 
 To battle yet again approaching storms. 
 So, as I launch from underneath the lea 
 
 Of this my early manhood's winter, may 
 I now withstand the turbulence, and be 
 
 The victor, with a crown of strength to lay 
 Upon my brow; and from it never cease 
 
 To gain, as winter comes and storms increase. 
 
 Watching moose at a typical New Brunswick dead-water 
 32 
 
DIALOGUE 
 
 DIALOGUE 
 
 between youthful City Tenderfoot and Experi- 
 enced Guide, upon meeting at railroad station 
 and driving to back farm en route to hunting 
 trip. 
 
 City Tenderfoot. Is this Mr. Gunther? 
 Experienced Guide. Yes. Ed Gunther. 
 City Tenderfoot. My name is Yardley Cecil Tripp. My 
 
 Aunt Sophie wrote you I was coming for a few 
 
 days? 
 Experienced Guide. Somebody wrote. 
 C. T. She thought It would be nice if I came up and got 
 
 some moose and deer before I go back to Miss 
 
 Todd's school. Is this the motor? 
 E. G. No, here's my team over here. 
 C. T. After you ; thank you. Aunt Sophie told me that 
 
 long ago my uncle used to go down to Maine 
 
 somewhere to fish and shoot, but she thought I 
 
 would get more game up here near this river. 
 
 What is the name of it? 
 E. G. Miramichi. 
 C. T. Yes, Miramichi ; that's it. She saw something in 
 
 a magazine about it. Is there much game up 
 
 here? 
 E. G. Oh, quiter lot. 
 
 C. T. I suppose you people see wild animals all the time ! 
 E. G. Yes, some o' the time. 
 C. T. Do the deer come out of the woods and graze 
 
 around and then go back? 
 
 33 
 
REFLECTIONS OF A MOOSE HUNTER 
 
 E. G. They come out, but they don't always go back. 
 
 C. T. Why don't they go back? 
 
 E. G. Get tangled up in the wire fences. 
 
 C. T. Pretty cold place up here, isn't it? 
 
 E. G. 'Taint very cold in the summer. 
 
 By discipline of divers sorts 
 
 The guides proceed to train their " sports " 
 
 C. T. The summers, though, must be very short. 
 
 E. G. Oh, 'bout three months. 
 
 C. T". I have a dandy new gun Aunt Sophie gave me just 
 before I left. I haven't opened it yet, but she 
 said it was a savage rifle. We must look at it 
 when we get to the woods. 
 
 34 
 
DIALOGUE 
 
 E. G. Yes, I 'spose we oughter open the case 'fore we 
 
 start shootin'. 
 
 C. T. She said it could kill a deer at a distance of 400 
 
 yards. 
 
 E. G. That yoii could? 
 
 C. T. She was speaking of the gun. 
 
 E. G. Oh, yes, that might be. 
 
 C. T. I have forgotten what she said it was. 
 
 E. G. 45-90 probably. 
 
 C T. Dear me ! more than that — nearer sixty dollars, I 
 
 should judge, from what she told me about it. 
 
 E. G. There's a deer! See him! 
 
 C. T. Where? 
 
 E. G. Over there ! 
 
 C. T. Over where? 
 
 E. G. See him? 
 
 C. T. No, I can't seem to — 
 
 E. G. Backer them firs ! 
 
 C.T. What firs? 
 
 E. G. Them firs backer the barn! 
 
 C. T. Those Christmas trees? Oh, yes, I see them. 
 
 E. G. Well, he's over here now by them birches ! 
 
 C.T. What birches? 
 
 E. G. There he goes inter the woods ! 
 
 C.T. He's gone? Strange I didn't see him. 
 
 E. G. An old Gizzer! Biggest head I ever saw. 
 
 C. T. Didn't he have any horns? 
 
 E. G. Yes, I say he had a big head o' horns — as big er 
 
 head as'l come out o' the country this fall. 
 
 C. T. Is that so ! Well, don't all the heads come from 
 
 the country? 
 
 E. G. Yes, deer heads, but bone heads — 
 
 C. T. How many will make up our party? 
 
 35 
 
REFLECTIONS OF A MOOSE HUNTER 
 
 E.G. 
 C. T. 
 
 E.G. 
 
 c. r. 
 
 E.G. 
 C. T. 
 E.G. 
 C. T. 
 E.G. 
 C. T. 
 
 E.G. 
 
 Just three — me an' you an' the cook. 
 
 You don't employ a waitress then ! 
 
 Never hav^e; p'raps we oughter, this trip. 
 
 Oh, no; don't put yourself out for me. I want to 
 
 rough it and put up with all the inconveniences 
 
 of camping out. Do we sleep in tents or shacks 
 
 or what? 
 Log camp. 
 
 And the cook, where does she sleep? 
 In the same camp. Her name's Jim Clark. 
 Oh, he's a man. He's a chef! 
 Whatever he is, he's goin' ter cook. 
 Pardon me, I wish you wouldn't expectorate as 
 
 you do. The wind makes it very unpleasant. 
 
 Well, it was great, our running on to a deer the 
 
 first thing. Do you really think I will get a — 
 
 a — Gizzer? 
 Oh, maybe, if we git good weather. Looks 'zif 
 
 'twas goin' ter rain. 
 
 The proper way to measure moose antlers 
 36 
 
WHAT THE STARS DID 
 
 WHAT THE STARS DID 
 
 {From a Diary — Renoiis River, September 21, 19 19) 
 
 THIS has been Sunday, almost all day. It rained 
 about the whole time. If I had gone to church, 
 and Sunday school, and prayer meeting, I could 
 not be in a depressing frame of mind. A rainy Sabbath 
 anywhere is bad enough — except at home. This hardly 
 sounds becoming, for I am supposed to be, at times, 
 rather poetically religious or perhaps religiously poetic. 
 At any rate, this Is not a sermon, or a statement of creed; 
 it is a diary, and if a diary is a good, complete one, it 
 should contain a true record of one's spirits as well as one's 
 doings. 
 
 Very blue, slightly homesick. These casual, callous 
 woodsmen are kindly enough, but not exactly consoling. 
 As roommates for any one in the Theological Seminary 
 they wouldn't be much, nor would they be called to a 
 bedside to administer the last rites. I read. I read the 
 Testament, a good novel, and a cheap magazine, and 
 wrote. Then at 4 p.m. I dressed and walked up the 
 Portage to shake this stewed, stuffy feeling. The rain let 
 up, but the sky hung very low with heavy, gray clouds, 
 and the black spruce forests looked dreadfully gloomy. 
 I didn't care much for the woods or the walk — or the trip 
 either. And to make things worse, a cow called mourn- 
 fully from the barren below the road. For a long time I 
 stood listening, but the call was not repeated, and I heard 
 no answer. Two rusty blackbirds In their sorrowful weeds 
 moved silently in the alders, and a Canada jay swept down 
 
 37 
 
REFLECTIONS OF A MOOSE HUNTER 
 
 like a shade and laughed at me. I hurried noisily back 
 to camp. I was altogether distressed over the idea of 
 breaking home ties, with all their pleasant comforts and 
 hibernating up here thirty-five miles from any human. 
 
 I kept thinking of M. and the kiddies. Sunday is such 
 a wonderful day at home! A leisurely, comfy time about 
 
 Typical hunting camp on Rocky Brook 
 
 the place, then church with M. to hear inspiriting words 
 and beautiful music; a deliciously clean dinner properly 
 served, and spotless little faces sitting next me, smiling 
 merrily! And then people running in during the after- 
 noon. How could I have been so keen to break and leave 
 it all ! No letter, no messages, no news. Anything might 
 
 38 
 
WHAT THE STARS DID 
 
 be happening. Two days' march to the nearest house and 
 three and more to mine. Keep on like this, the glamour 
 of moose hunting will soon be gone ! If I dared, I would 
 dust for the settlement tomorrow ! 
 
 I crossed the brook and started down the last grade to 
 camp. A voice suddenly seemed to be speaking — I think 
 it was my own; my own inner, better, wiser self. "Look 
 here, Seabury, you're a nice one to talk; you've been up in 
 this country before and you knew what to expect. You've 
 been housed in camp many times on rainy days with good 
 old Canadian guides. What are you whimpering about? 
 Isn't this the God's country you have always loved so, the 
 country you have talked and written about? Get back to 
 camp, put on some dry things, and have a good supper." 
 
 After supper. Mose poked his bearded face out the 
 camp door and called back that the stars were out with 
 the wind in the nor'west. I went out and looked up at the 
 million eyes of light, wondering at their silent and eternal 
 beauty. Mose was smoking by the stove when I came 
 in. "Isn't it wonderful, Mose, to be up in this great 
 country?" 
 
 "Betcher," he mumbled. 
 
 I took a turn back and forth the one-room cabin, 
 whistling "The Land of the Sky Blue Waters." 
 
 39 
 
REFLECTIONS OF A MOOSE HUNTER 
 
 THE MOOSE 
 
 The moose is very wild and big and does all kinds o' harm 
 Ter people if they don't look out; but on my father's farm 
 They come right out — I mean the moose — in our back field behind 
 The barn and feed among the stock, and seem so nice an' kind. 
 But in the woods they're different when the cows begin ter call — 
 My father knows, 'cause he's a guide, and sometimes in the fall 
 He takes the "sports" into his camp to try an' get a moose — 
 But then's the time, by gorry ! they're skittish as the doose. 
 One time — 'twas last October — a bull attacked a man 
 That was huntin' with my father up on the Furginspan ; 
 And father said 'twas awful, the sport got scared an' he 
 Forgot ter shoot an' dropped his gun, took up the nearest tree; 
 But afterwards, the sportsman said, in talkin' of the moose. 
 He never saw the bloomin' thing — 'twas father dumb the spruce. 
 
 On Sunday huntin's not allowed, an' farmin' isn't done. 
 
 So father hugs the kitchen stove or dozes in the sun. 
 
 But sometimes shoots at targets up back at Skeeter Lake, 
 
 And all the week my mother gives us tenderloin steak. 
 
 Jim White rigged up a spring-gun where moose come thro' his fence 
 
 And cropped his pease most every night — he oughter had the sense 
 
 To know the Baxters' cows was out ; then some one went an' told ; 
 
 So now he's got to pay the bill fer Baxter's two-year-old. 
 
 A Boston man stopped in ter talk, on startin' fer the woods, 
 
 And argued with my father 'bout hauling in some "goods." 
 
 When he come out, and layin' on the parlor couch, he said 
 
 He ran across a dandy moose, — he had an awful head ! 
 
 When father took me loggin' up on Batholomew 
 
 A little French Cannuk would sing his ballads fer the crew 
 
 About the lumber drive that squashed an' drownded twenty men, 
 
 An' the Frenchie what got married ter the "nice Canadienne." 
 
 One pretty ballad to the moose, we loved ter hear him tell — 
 
 "Git out de road, we'll blow yer horns an' ring yer bloody bell." 
 
 40 
 
A TRIBUTE 
 
 A TRIBUTE 
 
 NOT always does success mean fame and riches, 
 though it may deserve both. How many there 
 are who have become successful in their pur- 
 suits, but, because of circumstances, or environment, or 
 misfortune, never know what it is to bask in the sunshine 
 of notoriety and wealth. Nevertheless, the work is done, 
 though the reward is withheld. Like a bird that sings its 
 heart out in the distant solitudes where no ears may be 
 gladdened and no soul cheered, there are those who 
 have their volumes of wisdom to give with none to profit 
 thereby. 
 
 I am thinking tonight of William Carson, of Boiestown, 
 New Brunswick, who succeeded In the work set out for 
 him to do. He was an authority and a connoisseur, but 
 the light from his torch of knowledge reached scarcely be- 
 yond the limits of the little settlement. A trapper of furs 
 by trade, Bill Carson knew the ways of wild things as 
 we know the habits of our own domestic animals. The 
 secrets of the wilderness were like open pages to him, and 
 he followed the pathless woods as we walk the streets of 
 our native town. 
 
 For sixty odd years and at all seasons, he made a cease- 
 less study, in his own cunning way, of the little animals 
 whose pelts gave him his livelihood. Without books to 
 guide or teachers to show, he mastered the art of trapping 
 his game. Bear tracks in the leaves, a moose call from 
 the swamp, and feathers on the snow told plain and simple 
 stories to him. Whether in the musical months of spring 
 
 41 
 
REFLECTIONS OF A MOOSE HUNTER 
 
 Renous River hunting shack remodeled from an old logging camp 
 
 The man who refused to have his picture taken with his sister, now sits 
 with proud delight for the guide to snap him with his moose 
 
 42 
 
A TRIBUTE 
 
 or in the blustering winds of winter, he spoke a brief 
 good-by to his people and disappeared alone through the 
 firs behind his house. And when night came, wherever 
 he was, there he would rest and sleep beneath the open 
 sky or in some forsaken camp, happy in his wisdom of the 
 woods. 
 
 Old Bill took me moose hunting on the upper waters of 
 Rocky Brook, and always I shall remember with respect 
 and admiration the keen little woodsman, sturdy and pow- 
 erful, with his pack and his axe moving quietly ahead of 
 me through the trees. Over his ridges and across his wind- 
 swept barrens he led the way, forever tireless and watch- 
 ful, a man of seventy-seven years, father of nine children 
 and grandfather of thirty-six. 
 
 "The old gentleman," as they often called him, was so 
 patient and kindly. The way about him was at all times 
 calm and thoughtful, and his simple, Christian character 
 he never wore as a chevron on his sleeve, but could be 
 found and felt if you fell to talking with him, best of all 
 on a quiet evening in some distant log camp in the great 
 woods. 
 
 In late October, 191 8, God sent him a clear warning. 
 It was influenza. He was In company with a grandson, 
 his pupil, hunting the streams near the upper Tobique 
 waters. In three days he reached the settlement, making 
 most of the way alone and passing one wretched night In 
 an old camp, while the boy took another route over a line 
 of trap. On November 7th, the Lord gave the quick, final 
 call, and Old Bill slipped out and traveled the road West 
 to the Happy Hunting Grounds. We shall never see 
 again the Imprint of his snowshoes on the frozen lakes, 
 nor find the dim remains of his camp fire on the river's 
 brink, nor watch his bent figure, laden with the precious 
 
 43 
 
REFLECTIONS OF A MOOSE HUNTER 
 
 " Mother and Child." The mother is one of the six rocks in the lake ; 
 the child is one of the thousand hushes on the shore whence the mother 
 is gazing 
 
 " When the film is developed, if you are sure the tiny black speck in the 
 middle distance is not an imperfection in the paper, it may be the large bull 
 moose you took at close range." Left arrow points to wake ; X and arrow 
 indicate position of object when bulb was finally squeezed 
 
 44 
 
A TRIBUTE 
 
 catch of furs, as the old man emerged from the dark 
 spruces. The steel traps, the tools of his success, perhaps 
 dozens in number, lie scattered and concealed by his own 
 hand in the recesses of the vast country where no man 
 will find them. The boy, however, was taken with him on 
 that last sad journey to the north, we are told, partly for 
 the purpose of learning the whereabouts of the traps hid- 
 den away in this particular region; but it is doubtful 
 whether he will ever be able to locate them, even if he 
 follows the trade and lives as long. These crude imple- 
 ments of his craftsmanship, together with the farm on 
 Holtville Ridge, formed the bulk of his little estate. 
 
 So, one life of the million that are lowly though suc- 
 cessful came to its honorable close. I believe if Bill Carson 
 had been asked what he would wish his heaven to be, he 
 would have said, "Give me a dozen steel traps, six inches 
 of snow, and woods like Canada has." 
 
 If you don't get tired waiting, and the sun and wind are favorable, and 
 a moose happens to come within range, you may get a poor picture 
 
 45 
 
REFLECTIONS OF A MOOSE HUNTER 
 
 MY MOUNTAIN 
 
 {Set to music by John H. DenSxMORe) 
 There is a hill — a fragrant, verdant hill 
 
 Where thrushes sing, 
 Where pines hum through their same faint song 
 
 Each casual spring; 
 The first to greet the hopeful day. 
 The last to see it drift away, 
 
 When thrushes sing. 
 
 A hundred softly breathing summers smile. 
 
 And smiling go; 
 A hundred white Decembers cry — and fill 
 
 The months with snow. 
 No stain of years, no mark of clime — 
 Still changeless in the changeful time — 
 
 The uplands show. 
 
 The wrongs of life are songs, and grief is peace 
 
 And work days are 
 Sweet summer fruits, when once is seen. 
 
 Outstretched afar, 
 This forest world, so dear, so vast; 
 And burning in the west at last 
 
 An evening star. 
 
 46 
 
MANY ARE CALLED, BUT FEW WILL COME 
 
 MANY ARE CALLED, BUT FEW 
 WILL COME* 
 
 THREE bearded and bedraggled woodsmen were 
 making their silent way through the forests and 
 scattered barrens on the Renous. It was Octo- 
 ber. One October is much like another, and the word 
 alone should convey one great, glorious meaning to the 
 man who has truly seen and felt the wild beauties of 
 nature's autumn. To me, "October" used to spell foot- 
 ball ; but in recent years the mere utterance of the word 
 opens out a sudden mental picture of crisp mornings, for- 
 ests of green and gold, and moose hunting. So it will suf- 
 fice to state the year's month, allowing the appreciative 
 reader to see in his own mind's eye those delicious acces- 
 sories — the peabody birds, the clucking partridges, the 
 jays, colors and clouds, moose tracks, and the whispering 
 stillness of the New Brunswick woods. 
 
 To the casual onlooker — if there had been one — these 
 three men would have appeared unhappy and sober; be- 
 cause they were dwellers of the wilderness. And all true 
 woodsmen are silent and speechless, but really joyful souls; 
 so the three men, on the contrary, were happy. In dress 
 and manner they looked pretty much alike — only I didn't 
 spit. In the lead strode Moses Davidson, the guide; Hale 
 Reid, cook, brought up the rear, and I traveled well pro- 
 tected between them. Mose carried a heavy pack, an axe, 
 and a splendid thirteen-point deer head I had shot the pre- 
 vious evening. Hale supported a moderate load of cook- 
 
 * Under another title this paper appeared in part in Outrrs-Recrration, whose editors courteously 
 allowed it to be included in this publication. 
 
 47 
 
REFLECTIONS OF A MOOSE HUNTER 
 
 ing articles and the sad remains of what was a generous 
 supply of food, while I had my usual burden, consisting of 
 rifle, camera, binoculars, and sweaters. 
 
 For one short, eventful week we had been housed in a 
 trapper's camp on the upper waters of the South Branch 
 Renous in search of caribou. In this hunt we were dis- 
 appointed, though we sighted a few distant bands on the 
 broken barrens. We readily accounted for the scarcity of 
 caribou by the unexpected abundance of moose, while we 
 realized the best shooting, in this section, would commence 
 after deep snows in late November. Fresh moose tracks, 
 signs and bookings, were everywhere evident. We 
 counted from four to nineteen moose every day. On one 
 occasion in the night we were aroused from heavy sleep by 
 grunts and calls in the immediate vicinity of the camp 
 yard. The moon was dropping behind the spruces, which 
 made it quite impossible to detect whether we had at hand 
 a big head or a spike-horn bull. But the great black forms 
 were dimly discernible in the white light of the setting 
 moon. Unfortunately, no hunter can determine, from the 
 tone of a moose grunt, the size and character of the head 
 he carries. 
 
 And here we were returning from this splendid moose 
 country to a point we were less familiar with, some t\^enty 
 miles east. Our week's supply of food was nearly ex- 
 hausted and we must needs strike for headquarters to 
 replenish our larder with flour, salt, bacon, and a dozen 
 other necessities. En route to the upper waters we halted 
 the week previous at an old lumber camp, one-quarter of 
 a mile from the Renous, w^here we deposited a good 
 month's supply of eatables, and for this camp we were now 
 headed. 
 
 Inwardly I felt much disturbed to quit such a promising 
 
 48 
 
MANY ARE CALLED, BUT FEW WILL COME 
 
 game country and blamed myself as well as my men for 
 toting thither such a limited supply of rations. But Mose 
 declared that in this territory one corner was as good as 
 another, so I determined to hunt Avherever we chanced to 
 be, and return later if possible. 
 
 As we progressed slowly in single file among the beau- 
 tiful spruces and beside the solitary dead-waters, scanning 
 every likely spot for a glimpse of my moose, I felt 
 strangely impressed with the rare good fortune of my lot. 
 "This is the real thing," I whispered to myself; "real 
 moose hunting in New Brunswick!" Though each and 
 every autumn, for a dozen years or more, I had found 
 myself traversing the big game country of the north, 
 always thrilled, always in high spirits, always comfortably 
 contented, on this keen morning I experienced the same old 
 joy increased a hundred fold. The great wild world about 
 us seemed too full of primitive beauty for human expres- 
 sion, and I hoped we might just travel on and listen to the 
 silent woods. 
 
 At a long dead-water we paused to bait and, incidentally, 
 to watch two old cow moose feeding near the margin of 
 the woods. At this particular season, of course, cows 
 prove ever so helpful, since a bull is apt to be lingering 
 under cover in their company. For more than an hour we 
 watched and listened and devoured the last morsel of our 
 cold meal. As if the scene before us was invisibly trans- 
 formed, we all suddenly and simultaneously sighted a 
 bull at the edge of the big trees, standing motionless and 
 gazing calmly in the direction of the cows. The animal 
 appeared quite as if he had been anchored there for the 
 whole time we had been watching for him. This weird 
 and sudden appearance of a moose into one's field of 
 vision is often remarked upon by hunters. The beast, as 
 
 49 
 
REFLECTIONS OF A MOOSE HUNTER 
 
 it were, steps from nowhere into full view. You fail to 
 see him come; he is merely there. I cautiously leveled the 
 glasses and decided without hesitation he would prove a 
 splendid specimen. The men, eager for a look, agreed we 
 should not let him pass. Hale, given to impulsive excite- 
 ment, swore it was a mammoth head — the largest he had 
 ever seen. 
 
 The bull was standing nearly broadside to, when first 
 discovered. His antlered head actually looked enormous, 
 even at the distance of some 400 yards. It was difficult to 
 count the points at this range, since they became confused 
 with the twigs and little branches in the trees of the back- 
 ground. For fully twenty minutes I did not see that our 
 moose stirred a muscle. But when the cows, serving as 
 decoys, moved gradually along the shallow water, he 
 woke up, as it were, and followed with precision and great 
 dignity. And then it was that the significant coughs and 
 grunts began. When he finally swung about and proceeded 
 head-on for a moment, I saw there was something irregu- 
 lar or freakish about the horns, for now we counted 
 fourteen points on one antler and few, if any, on the 
 other. Hale declared, with a sympathetic accompaniment 
 of oaths, that both horns tilted well back over the shoul- 
 ders of the beast, and that the prongs of the off-antler must 
 be hidden from view. But I had viewed the head squarely 
 from the front for an instant and knew Hale's solution 
 was not the case. After another hour of patient watching, 
 the cows brought our moose directly toward us to a point 
 not 300 feet distant, when we viewed distinctly for a long 
 period the head in all its peculiar deficiency. There he 
 stood before us, truly a splendid specimen, having a heavy 
 muffle, a long bell, and carrying but one large and well 
 palmated antler of thirteen points; the other horn proved 
 
 50 
 
MANY ARE CALLED, BUT FEW WILL COME 
 
 to be one long, irregular spike, resembling a poor caribou 
 head. If the incomplete antler had corresponded to the 
 healthy one in size and shape, it would have been a grand 
 
 trophy, measuring, according to Hale, "not a d inch 
 
 under 6^.^^ In the woods, disappointments are great and 
 the ifs are many. 
 
 By 2 P.M. we were again on the trail, expecting to make 
 camp by four in the evening. A slight detour from our 
 direct route brought us to a picturesque grassy body of 
 water, surrounded on one side by a wicked cedar swamp 
 and on the other by gently sloping ridges in ravishing 
 color. When I had visited this spot in previous years, I 
 was profoundly impressed with its rare beauty and un- 
 speakable loneliness. Every inch of the place seemed to 
 breathe forsaken wildness. How many, many times, amid 
 the clatter of city scenes and the rushing excitement of 
 business, I have pictured this calm retreat, tucked away in 
 the very heart of the New Brunswick wilderness. Besides 
 our sympathetic selves, scarcely a human soul from one 
 year's end to another interrupts its eternal quiet. What 
 is there of all aesthetic conditions that appeals more ten- 
 derly to the adventurous temperament than pure, unbroken 
 wilderness? 
 
 The miry shores, trodden by moose and deer for in- 
 numerable summers, looked like a farmer's cow yard; a 
 thousand deep runways converged to the pond from the 
 country round about. A cow and her calf, partly concealed 
 in the long grasses, were feeding at the lower end. As 
 we paused in the hope of finding a bull in the vicinity, we 
 heard at our left a clear series of roars. Instantly we 
 crouched where we stood, searching among the trees with 
 wide, eager eyes. The sounds became more distinct and 
 nearer, accompanied by the cracking of branches, until we 
 
 51 
 
REFLECTIONS OF A MOOSE HUNTER 
 
 made out the dark outline of a moose headed in our direc- 
 tion. It proved to be a three-year with a small but evenly 
 developed pair of horns. He evidently was following the 
 trail of a cow, which wound through the woods close to 
 our position. He passed within fifty feet from us, with 
 his nose to the ground and emitting hoarse grunts. As he 
 circled around to a point well back of us, he stopped, 
 sniffed the wind, and advanced in our direction, issuing 
 sounds of a different tone. For a moment I was a little 
 alarmed, though my rifle was ready. Under these condi- 
 tions a bull moose is not always docile, and when a young 
 bull has had no experience in "meeting men," as we be- 
 lieved of this one, the result is problematical. The animal 
 came to a halt at thirty feet, looked us over, then wheeled 
 with a great noise and tremendous display of power, and 
 made for the outlet. I was relieved, but hastened to get a 
 picture as he entered the water. Mose imitated a cow 
 whimpering, which made him stop in water to his belly, 
 when I made a distant exposure. 
 
 Meanwhile the cow and calf at such a distance had not 
 been in the least disturbed. Immediately Mose sighted a 
 "big bull" close behind the calf, hidden by a small tama- 
 rack. I was quite unprepared for such a rapid succession 
 of exciting events, for they seemed to come thick and fast 
 on this eventful day. It would be useless to undertake a 
 stalk which meant to penetrate the swamp. I therefore 
 told Mose to give a call. It interested me to see whether 
 he could entice the bull away from the company of the 
 cow. Immediately the moose lifted his antlered head and 
 slowly swung it in our direction. Until Mose called a 
 second time the bull stood motionless, then at this second 
 invitation he gave one farewell look toward his companion, 
 and started for the cedar swale. 
 
 52 
 
MANY ARE CALLED, BUT FEW WILL COME 
 
 Many times Mose had called in my presence, securing 
 one or more replies, and on several occasions the bulls 
 came cautiously and slowly, but never coming out in full 
 view, as the stories relate. But here was the most evident, 
 full-fledged successful example of moose calling I ever 
 heard of. Every step in the event was accomplished quite 
 as if it had been concocted for the moving-picture screen. 
 The beast heard, understood, and obeyed. For fully 
 twenty-five minutes he was entirely out of sight, circling 
 the pond. From the cruel depths of the swamp we heard 
 his continuous roars and coughs, the breaking of branches 
 and splashings of water. In the stillness of that rapturous 
 hour of sundown these sounds were significant, to say the 
 least. 
 
 Crouched behind big stumps, we strained our eyes for 
 the first sight of the great black body as it must soon 
 crash into view. When it appeared I whispered to Mose 
 something about the folly of shooting only a fair moose 
 because it was at close range. "Suit yerself," he answered. 
 "Yer may hunt two months in the country and not see a 
 better one, and yer may run acrost an old son-of-a-gun 
 termorrer." This was sad advice at such a moment. 
 
 "What will we do if I don't shoot?" I asked. 
 
 "Just yell!" 
 
 So I made up my mind I should do what I thought best, 
 knowing I could get no help from Mose. It was interest- 
 ing to observe that the roars sounded little, if any, louder 
 as the moose approached. That is, when in the cedar 
 swamp the guttural noises seemed nearly as penetrating as 
 when the animal was lOO feet from us. This point we 
 had discussed on similar occasions when listening to moose 
 advancing to the call, and now came to the conclusion that 
 near by there is less space and opportunity for reverbera- 
 
 53 
 
REFLECTIONS OF A MOOSE HUNTER 
 
 tion, whereas at a great distance the sounds echo usually 
 across water or against trees and ridges. It is probable a 
 bull roars louder when he first hears the call from a far 
 point, just as you would make more or enough noise to be 
 heard at a greater distance. Then, too, the actual position 
 of the head at the moment has something to do with the 
 carrying tone. 
 
 As our moose plunged suddenly into full view, unob- 
 structed by even a twig, we could hardly have had a better 
 opportunity to form various conclusions. Like the actual 
 kill, the mere story of It should not be a matter on which 
 to dwell. By exact measurement I shot at forty-eight feet, 
 and again In a few seconds to do the humane thing. 
 
 In the size and measurement of the moose I was not 
 greatly disappointed. We estimated he would tip the 
 scales to better than 900 pounds, while the spread of 
 horns was forty-seven Inches; points numbered seventeen, 
 and the bell was sixteen Inches In length. In severing the 
 head the next morning, we discovered two leaden bullets 
 embedded In the muscles of the neck, which were explained 
 by the men to be the doings of Bill Carson, the old 
 trapper, who passed the previous winter alone In this 
 region. Since we left the autumn before, no person was 
 known to have visited the country, save the old trapper, 
 and the bullets, according to Hale and Mose, tallied with 
 the size of the rifle he carried. The moose was a superb 
 specimen. In spite of the moderate antler spread, and, 
 strange to say, I was not disturbed at this. The circum- 
 stances under which the animal was shot atoned for any 
 deficiency In measurement. To me. It was the cleverest 
 job of moose calling I could conceive of. In a nutshell, 
 Mose, at the height of the rutting season, drew a bull 
 away from his cow to a point forty-eight feet from the 
 
 54 
 
MANY ARE CALLED, BUT FEW WILL COME 
 
 "sport." In circling the pond the moose traveled over one 
 mile after responding to the call. 
 
 Dr. H. O. Hunt with the 50-inch moose he 
 shot at Burton Lake, New Brunswick 
 
 55 
 
REFLECTIONS OF A MOOSE HUNTER 
 
 TOUT SEUL 
 
 THE day broke fair and fresh and fragrant — the 
 complete essence of Indian Summer. From the 
 camp door the picture of the quiet lake with 
 autumn-tinted ridges beyond appeared like an over- 
 drawn reproduction of a water color. Weather like this, 
 you are dead sure "God's in his heaven and all's right with 
 the world." I rested calmly in the belief that back in the 
 States the wife and kiddies were well and happy. 
 
 It was going to be a red-letter day, I felt sure ; therefore 
 I intended to spend it alone. There were a lot of things I 
 wanted to get to thinking about. The business of trailing 
 along through the woods behind a guide day after day in 
 the usual formation becomes monotonous and tiresome. 
 You follow his lead; you may neither go where you please 
 nor linger where you will ; you instinctively imitate his 
 movements, his caution, his speed. You almost think his 
 thoughts. While this is certainly the traditional and proper 
 method of hunting big game in unfamiliar ground, the 
 day sometimes comes when you long to act as your own 
 guide, and manoeuvre to your heart's content, letting the 
 game go hang. So, today I would proceed unhampered 
 and undisturbed, eat my lunch if and when and where I 
 pleased, and return to camp when I got good and ready. 
 
 The wet woods sparkled and sang. Each tree wore the 
 shade of its own choice — Titian, gold, chrome, and green, 
 and I was to have a good, long look, with no one to spoil it. 
 In that interesting volume, "Camp Fires in the Canadian 
 Rockies," Mr. Hornaday writes a delicious paragraph on 
 
 56 
 
TOUT SEUL 
 
 the wisdom of going forth to see nature alone, as you 
 would prefer to call on your best girl. And I often think 
 of his simile when I am with one or the other. , 
 
 After crossing Home Lake in the canoe, with rifle, 
 camera, glasses, books, and lunch, I cut through to Duck 
 Lake, an intensely desolate spot. Whoever christened 
 these bodies of water should be harshly spoken to. Such 
 romantic and significant names as "Spider," "Deer," 
 "Moose," "Long," and "Fish," are given these delectable 
 retreats. It so happens there are fully as many deer at 
 Moose Lake as there are moose at Deer Lake, and no 
 more spiders around Spider Lake than any of the others. 
 To be sure, Long Lake is quite long, and there are trout 
 in Fish Lake, as everywhere else. But oh, how unpoetical 
 and mediocre ! Since there are said to be twenty-five within 
 a five-mile radius of camp, perhaps the pretty names ran 
 out before they got to this particular group. A little to the 
 northeast another couple of dozen small sheets of water 
 are called after individuals who happened along when the 
 cognomens were distributed. We are told Burton Lake is 
 named in memory of a certain Mr. Burton, who once 
 killed a moose on its shores. And a lumberman called 
 Burke perpetuated his name because of the logging opera- 
 tions he undertook in the vicinity of what is now known as 
 Burke Lake. 
 
 Li this general region — pretty much Anglo-American — 
 we may not expect, of course, those fascinating French 
 names common to the foreign settlements still further 
 north. But what was to prevent making use of the musical 
 Indian words, inasmuch as these woods rang with the 
 shouts of Red Men for many years before Americans 
 came? 
 
 At any rate, I emerged from the spruces on Duck Lake, 
 
 57 
 
REFLECTIONS OF A MOOSE HUNTER 
 
 where some early prospector must have seen a flock of 
 sheldrakes and curled up in the sunshine to look, listen, 
 and think. To any stray reader, it would be stupid and a 
 waste of good time to wade through the endless record of 
 what I saw, heard, and dreamed. But all the same, are 
 not these the very things you and I and the next man feed 
 on and live by? Always we are amused, if not uplifted, by 
 sights, sounds, and thoughts. Our own little personal expe- 
 riences, our amateur conclusions, are precious to ourselves. 
 How often in conversation among people of average in- 
 telligence do we hear the recital of personal narratives, 
 and we all are participants in this competition of common 
 talk. What happens to you is of such peculiar interest to 
 you yourself that you straightway must tell it. But it will 
 be surprising if your audience is as keen on the tale as you 
 are. Perhaps you are not a good story-teller, or perhaps 
 your audience is not a good listener, which is more probable. 
 Even a child has "long, long thoughts," and Tom Hood, 
 in his mature years, said he was further off from heaven 
 than when he was a boy. 
 
 At eleven o'clock, three cows and a grown calf wan- 
 dered leisurely out of the woods and fed along the shore, 
 getting well out into deep water. They stood at fairly 
 close range, perhaps lOO yards, and by the use of the 
 binoculars I could see every detail. Something of interest 
 was certainly in the timber near the barren whence they 
 came, for constantly they turned their heads to look and 
 listen. Presently the sight that delights every hunter of 
 big game came silently into view. A bull moose is ever so 
 cautious at this time of year, and often gives the impres- 
 sion of being little less than timid. This Individual 
 studied carefully the prospects of safety before he moved 
 into the open, and I am sure must have looked long and 
 
 58 
 
TOUT SEUL 
 
 doubtfully from the precious cover of his dark trees. 
 Rarely do the males show fight at this or any season, ex- 
 cept when wounded or cornered. We all hear tales of 
 hunters being "treed" by moose. I must take such state- 
 ments with much salt. Never has an authentic report — 
 with one exception — come to me of a case wherein a man 
 was actually forced to flee to cover. Though the experi- 
 ence has not yet befallen me, I know of hunters who fled, 
 to be sure, but in each case it de\'eloped the retreat was 
 quite unnecessary. It is always best to consider safety 
 first, but if these frightened men had stood their ground, 
 the embarrassment — which looked like real danger at the 
 moment — would, doubtless, have passed. Mr. Roosev^elt's 
 description (5mZ?«^r'5, December, 19 16) of the Infuriated 
 bull which persisted in following him until it was necessary 
 to kill the beast is the one trustworthy instance I can recall. 
 On one occasion, our team was making the home trip 
 with our load of heads, meat, and personal effects, when a 
 large bull, bolting through the woods to the accompani- 
 ment of grunts and roars, halted within thirty feet of the 
 horses. Fire showed in his eyes and his mane stood on 
 end. With much difficulty the men were able to pacify the 
 frightened team, which reared and snorted, endangering 
 the whole outfit. Shouts and curses had no effect on the 
 angry moose, and, since no one was armed, all hands were 
 prepared for a set-to. As he plunged further around the 
 wind, still wrathful and eager for battle, he scented the 
 enemy and gradually subsided, moving quietly out of sight. 
 The reverberation of the wagon wheels hitting against the 
 big rocks, we concluded, sounded to the brute at some 
 distance like the striking of horns In a battle between two 
 bulls, and forthwith he hastened to the scene. The ex- 
 cited horses he apparently mistook at the moment for the 
 
 59 
 
REFLECTIONS OF A MOOSE HUNTER 
 
 moose engaged in the conflict. Immediately on getting 
 the human scent his whole demeanor changed, giving evi- 
 dence that he did not intend to rush upon the men or 
 horses to attack them. I once listened to the far-away 
 noises of a bull light which at times seemed as much like 
 wagon wheels as moose antlers. 
 
 But all this may have little to do with the placid moose 
 I was watching from my blind on Duck Lake, though it 
 indicates how a chain of memories rises up when one rests 
 alone in a wild and calm retreat. My moose clearly showed 
 no desire to associate closely with the cows, nor to feed 
 even by himself, but stood motionless for many long 
 minutes, as If keeping guard over his flock. As the cows 
 progressed towards me along the grassy shore, he gathered 
 himself together and followed heavily, emitting the gut- 
 tural coughs so characteristic of bulls in the fall of the year. 
 These sounds certainly have much meaning, probably sug- 
 gesting Impatience, warning, censure, or desire. Then he 
 would forget his state of mind and graze listlessly for a 
 brief space. When he found himself close to a small 
 tamarack he suddenly took vengeance on it, ripping the 
 branches pitilessly with his horns until there was little left 
 but a scarred and broken stub. The coughs were now 
 roars, given out in low undertones. This way and that he 
 tossed his antlered head — respectable antlers they were, 
 but too inferior on which to pin my license tag — pawing 
 and hooking until he put himself in a state of nervous rage. 
 While, at so close a range I might rely on my marksman- 
 ship — always rather average than accurate — I was dis- 
 tinctly uncomfortable. To make a tranquil study of a 
 docile bull moose at a distance is one thing — but to con- 
 tinue the study of his delirious approach is another. I 
 really wasn't scared, but developments were so uncertain. 
 
 60 
 
TOUT SEUL 
 
 Of course he had no knowledge of my presence, conse- 
 quently I was sure his anger had nothing to do with me; 
 but I didn't care to have him get so mad when I was so 
 near. There was no chance of his getting my wind, which 
 made it all the more disagreeable, for he would yet be 
 sitting on my lap unless something happened to prevent. 
 Naturally I disliked to have a scene, though I was inter- 
 ested in staging an incident worth writing about. Why I 
 chanced to be seated immediately in his path, or why he 
 chose to travel directly towards me, I don't understand. 
 Without any well-outlined plan of action, I instinctively 
 felt that I myself should take the situation in hand, and 
 allow the animal no more freedom of movement. To beat 
 him at his own game was evidently what I would try to do. 
 When he paused slightly to root up a little spruce, not 
 further off than the length of a board of directors' table, 
 I arose with great commotion, and, waving my arms wildly, 
 shouted mean names at him. 
 
 Apparently it was my turn to be angry, and I felt myself 
 sweaty with rage as I started to fling my slang and slander, 
 but at the sudden sound of my own voice echoing across 
 the barren, and realizing the intimacy of the situation, I 
 experienced genuine fear for the first time. To stop talk- 
 ing to him, however, at such close quarters would admit 
 defeat, so I continued my eloquence, gesticulating as one 
 usually does in a heated tirade. The force of the on- 
 slaught I knew would tell. The poor creature got a terrific 
 jolt. His vicious conduct changed first to blank wonder- 
 ment and then to timid alarm for the safety of his hide. 
 Without lingering to catch the full meaning of my last 
 words, he wheeled where he stood and "racked" with vio- 
 lent speed into the tall timber, I know I recovered from 
 my fright quicker than he did from his. 
 
 6 1 
 
REFLECTIONS OF A MOOSE HUNTER 
 
 The Incident amused me more than anything else, until 
 I noticed my camera lying beside me, which I completely 
 forgot to use. At this I was heartily disturbed. Like most 
 average amateur sportsmen, I am forever hoping to "get 
 good pictures," and forever failing to get even poor ones. 
 The cows, somewhat aroused, though in no haste to leave 
 as their lord and master left, were standing in astonishment 
 at the strange scene they had witnessed. They were now 
 strung along perhaps sixty yards away. Still disgruntled 
 at my stupidity, I seized and adjusted the camera, rushed 
 at them across the open barren, and succeeded in making 
 two indistinct exposures before they broke for cover. The 
 better of the two appears, with apologies, on page 6^. 
 
 When I had finished the business of successfully clearing 
 the feeding ground of all game by my uncanny yells and 
 mad dash up the shore, I sat down to eat. The morning 
 had been unusual, to be sure, but if I waited in the blind 
 a fortnight those five moose and probably most of their 
 friends would not venture again into that cheering section. 
 At all events, as I lay in the sunshine again I concluded I 
 had made at least one "faunatical" observation, viz., that 
 an impassioned bull moose Is not truly dangerous If you 
 speak sharply to him as he approaches. 
 
 But what retiring and harmless creatures moose really 
 are ! Their first instinct is to dwell apart. Unlike the 
 habits usually attributed to wolves and lions, they live out 
 their peaceful days in distant seclusion, forever trying to 
 avoid the trodden ways of man. All animals have among 
 themselves their periods of antagonism as well as amiable 
 content. We cannot blame them for their varied moods, 
 nor must we feel we may slay them because they are some- 
 times fierce. The brief lives of all creatures, like our own, 
 are crowded with problems, struggles, and tragedies. The 
 
 62 
 
TOUT SEUL 
 
 degrees of happiness, of comfort, of health which they, 
 with their own limited powers, are able to appreciate, must 
 needs be beyond our comprehension. 
 
 In considering the inoffensive habits of moose, and their 
 individual privilege of existence, the claim given to all 
 living things, I wondered particularly on this beautiful day, 
 whether a man who shoots can be looked upon altogether 
 as kind-hearted. So often we sportsmen are admonished 
 for deliberately setting forth with intent to kill. Women 
 in particular condemn us. If we are purposely cruel and 
 hunt for the mere sport of watching death dim the eyes of 
 innocent things, we deserve all and more than is said of us. 
 Every sportsman I have known abhors the spectacle of 
 that final moment of suffering. Yet the spirit of the chase, 
 the inherent desire to bag a good prize, the consciousness 
 of the legality of the sport, and the knowledge, skill, time, 
 and expense entailed, all tend to minimize the heartlessness 
 of taking innocent lives. Biologists may tell us that when 
 pain is thus inflicted it comes in a less degree of intensity 
 than we, as mortals, are able to regard it, since the animal 
 is known to be neither as sensitive nor as highly organized; 
 it is physically and temperamentally constituted to endure 
 distress more casually, as it were, than we are accustomed 
 to appreciate. While such a theory may have truth in 
 it, I am sure most of us choose to disregard it as an 
 argumentative excuse for causing suffering and take the 
 position that any intentional injury is pitiless and cruel. 
 But the sportsmanlike purpose is not to make to suffer — 
 it is to kill. So the deprivation of life is the point to 
 consider. 
 
 The right and wrong of the business is a matter of opin- 
 ion, of creed. The Scriptures do not forbid it; the state 
 allows and encourages it. Which is of greater value, the 
 
 63 
 
REFLECTIONS OF A MOOSE HUNTER 
 
 balance of the creature's life, or his mounted head? Which 
 will be made happier, the moose with his freedom, or the 
 hunter with his trophy? "It depends." 
 
 Killing for scientific purposes and for food to sustain 
 human life is universally acknowledged to be just and 
 necessary, since both are of greater importance than animal 
 life. In spite of the lawful right to kill, the pleasure of 
 owning a collection of trophies, and the credit for out- 
 witting wild and clever beasts, is not the pastime rather 
 unnecessary to one's health and happiness? 
 
 Never do I look down upon the lifeless body of a moose 
 without the thought that the kill was really needless, that 
 a life was forfeited merely for what I call my pleasure. 
 Candidly, my conception of pleasure is morally wrong. 
 However, I am glad, perhaps, to have taken a few speci- 
 mens for the experience, and for their biological and 
 scientific value; but now, like many men who have con- 
 tinually Indulged In the sport for sport's sake, I am con- 
 vinced there is as much opportunity for keen enjoyment 
 and helpful instruction in the observation and photography 
 of living animals. To secure still or moving pictures is 
 more difliicult and every bit as thrilling as shooting, while 
 the photographic likenesses of the creatures in their nat- 
 ural haunts are more useful and significant than stuffed 
 samples. By the use of the camera you get your moose, 
 yet he still runs free In his native woods, and there can be 
 no question of your guilt. You travel the same wonderful 
 stretches of country, you live the same open life, you bring 
 home the same notebook of observations, with no limit to 
 the number of mementos of your success. Before many 
 years I believe it will be quite out of fashion to kill big 
 game hereabouts for mere sport. From the code of so- 
 called advanced civilization, many traditional Indulgences 
 
 64 
 
TOUT SEUL 
 
 have been already discredited. It is not improbable that 
 the motion picture machine and the camera for taking 
 colors will replace the sporting rifle. The hunter will be- 
 come the photographer, and the sportsman will be the 
 naturalist. 
 
 To publish compositions setting forth the glories of 
 moose hunting and then condemn the undertaking as a 
 sport, sounds little less than contradictory — but go forth 
 annually, my friend, and shoot down with your gun, all 
 told, a dozen noble specimens, and then of a quiet Indian 
 Summer day strike off alone through the woods to look, 
 listen, and think. 
 
 I rushed towards them across the open barren, making two poor 
 exposures before they broke for cover 
 
 65 
 
REFLECTIONS OF A MOOSE HUNTER 
 
 A large bull photographed by Mr. J. A. Burgess and Mr. C. 
 M. Sawyer, who made these instantaneous exposures with a 
 3i X 2i pocket kodak 
 
 66 
 
THE ONE DEFENCE 
 
 THE ONE DEFENCE 
 
 WE hunters turn from tender eyes 
 Of wounded deer, and criticize 
 Barbaric customs, yet we still 
 Pursue our purposes to kill. 
 
 The fascination of the chase 
 Is known to every age and race ; 
 The world we cannot rectify; 
 The harmless with the vile must die. 
 
 At cruelties to beast and bird 
 Compassions rise and hearts are stirred; 
 To slay in fairness and prevent 
 Undue distress is our intent. 
 
 67 
 
REFLECTIONS OF A MOOSE HUNTER 
 
 Bull photographed at thirty feet, May 30, 1921. The antlers are well 
 grown for so early in the summer, and by autumn the moose should carry a 
 splendid head 
 
 Cow moose taken at Salmon Brook Lake, New Brunswick, June 1, 1921 
 
 68 
 
)