"I knew he had not seen or
scented me," said Uncle Nathan, "but, by hemp, I wished myself
somewhere else just then; for I was lying right down in his path."
But the noble animal stopped, a few yards short, and fell dead with a
bullet-hole through his heart.
When the moose yard in the winter, that is, restrict their wanderings
to a well-defined section of the forest or mountain, trampling down the
snow and beating paths in all directions, they browse off only the most
dainty morsels first; when they go over the ground a second time they
crop a little cleaner; the third time they sort still closer, till by
and by nothing is left. Spruce, hemlock, poplar, the barks of various
trees, everything within reach, is cropped close. When the hunter
comes upon one of these yards the problem for him to settle is, Where
are the moose? for it is absolutely necessary that he keep on the lee
side of them. So he considers the lay of the land, the direction of
the wind, the time of day, the depth of the snow, examines the spoor,
the cropped twigs, and studies every hint and clew like a detective.
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