ould have instantly
killed the man.

Occasionally he stepped into the fringe of the forest but at the least
movement of his prisoner in the tree he was back on guard, shaking his
huge antlers threateningly. Thus the time wore on. As the air grew
frostier, the Hermit shivered and huddled closer to the trunk of his
tree. "Wish I had your hide!" he muttered, looking wrathfully down at
his jailer.

Now and then the Hermit could hear Pal howling lonesomely. Fortunately,
he had shut the dog up in the house when he set forth upon his rash
adventure. "Never mind, Pal," he said aloud, "you may be glad you _are_
alone. I only wish I were." He aimed a vicious kick at the antlers,
which were not far below, but was forced to draw up his foot quickly.

At last, when the Hermit's cramped position had grown distressingly
painful, there came a welcome interruption. Suddenly the big moose
ceased his pawing and listened intently, his great ears strained to some
sound which had been inaudible to the Hermit. Both waited expectantly.
Far off, but unmistakable, came the call of a cow moose. Instantly the
bull sent out his rumbling reply, though he did not desert his post.
Again came the call, this time much nearer. The Hermit in his interest
forgot that he was a prisoner, that his feet had gone to sleep, and that
he was chilled through and through.

Now a crackling sounded from among the trees and a moment later a
shadowy bulk, followed by a smaller one which the Hermit rightly judged
to be a yearling calf, emerged from the dark forest. The bull, with a
low bleat ridiculous in so large a beast, sprang to meet them. The man
in the tree was forgotten as the two big animals followed by the calf,
vanished, three shadows among the darker shadows of the woods. The
Hermit was glad enough to lower himself from the tree and make his way
painfully to the cabin and the comfort of his fire and his dog. He had
had enough of moose-calling for a season.

The big moose reigned supreme in all the northland. When the snows of
winter began to whiten the wilderness, he led his herd to a sheltered
nook deep among the hemlocks. There the yard was formed, a labyrinth of
intersecting paths, kept free from deep snow and leading to the best
places for food and shelter. The herd lived in comparative comfort until
spring returned to the wilderness, and the bull moose, having shed his
great antlers, sought seclusion until a new pair should once more clothe
him with