woodsman began the exciting
work of preparing his birch-bark horn, that primitive but potent trumpet
through which he would sigh, groan, grunt, and roar, imitating each
varying mood of the cow-moose. To her call he had often listened as he
lay for hours on a mossy bed in the far depths of the forest, learning
to interpret the language of every woodland creature.

Unsheathing his hunting-knife, and selecting a sound white-birch tree,
Herb carefully removed from it a piece of bark about eighteen inches in
length and six in width. This he carefully trimmed, and rolled into a
horn as a child would twist paper into a cornucopia package for sweets,
tying it with the twine-like roots of the ground juniper. The tapering
end of the trumpet, which would be applied to the caller's lips,
measured about one inch across; its mouth measured five.

Returning to camp, Herb dipped the horn in warm water and then let it
dry, saying that this would produce a mellow ring. He stoutly refused
all appeals from the boys to give them a few illustrations of
moose-calling there and then, with a lesson in the art, declaring that
it would spoil the night's sport, and that they must first hear the call
amid proper surroundings. From time to time he impressed upon them that
they were going to engage in an expedition which required absolute
silence and clever stratagem to make it successful. He vowed to wreak a
woodsman's vengeance on any fellow who balked it by shaking the boat, or
by moving body or rifle so as to make a noise.

A light, humming breeze had been blowing all day; but as the afternoon
waned, it died down. The evening proved clear, chilly, and still.

"Is this a likely night for calling, Herb?" asked Cyrus anxiously,
taking a survey of sky and lake from the camp-door about an hour before
the start.

"Fine," answered Herb with satisfaction. "Guess we'll get an answer
sure, if there's a moose within hearing. There ain't a puff of wind to
carry our scent, and give the trick away. But rig yourselves up in all
the clothing you've got, boys; the cold, while we're waiting, may be
more than you bargain for."

The guide had a light boat on the lake, moored below the camp. At six
o'clock he seated himself therein, taking the oars in his brawny hands.
Cyrus and Neal took their places in the stern; while Dol disposed of
himself snugly in the bow, right under a jack-lamp which Herb had
carefully trimmed and lit. But he had closed its sliding do