ing with its long legs rather wide apart in a posture of insecure and sprawling babyhood.
The loneliness, the helplessness, in the youngling's attitude went straight to the heart of the sorrowful mother. Involuntarily she gave a low, soft call, a call for which there is no name as yet in the vocabulary of either the naturalist or the woodsman. It was neither the mooing of a cow nor the bleating of a ewe, but it held something of both; and it was unmistakably a mother's cry. Faint and far off though it was, the lonely calf heard it, and lifted up his head hopefully.
The great black moose surveyed all the surroundings of that little inclosure with wary eyes, though the longing in her heart and the ache of her burdened udder strove to dull her caution. There was not a man-creature in sight. Satisfied on this point, she moved swiftly, but always noiselessly, down the slope, through the aisles of the fir woods, and halted behind a screen of bushes close to the fence. The red calf was gazing all about him, hoping to hear again that mother call. His colour, his form, his moist, blunt, naked muzzle were all very strange to the silent watcher; but her heart went out to him. Suddenly growing impatient—for he was hungry as well as lonely—he stretched his neck and uttered an appealing, babyish bawl.
To the moose this cry was irresistible. She
