“Land o’ liberty!” ejaculated the woodsman.  “Where on earth do you city men pick up your notions about forest creatures—­that’s what I’d like to know?  A moose can’t get its horns to the ground without dropping on its knees; and it can’t nibble grass from the ground neither without sprawling out its long legs,—­which for an animal of its size are as thin as pipe-stems,—­and tumbling in a heap.  So I don’t credit that yarn about their digging up the moss, even when there’s no other food to be had; though I can’t say for sure it’s not true.  In summer moose feed about the ponds and streams, on the long grasses and lily-pads.  They’re at home in the water, and mighty fine swimmers; so the red men say that they came first from the sea.

“In the fall, and through the winter too, so far as I can make out, they eat the twigs and bark of different trees, such as white birches and poplars.  They’re powerful fond of moose-wood—­that’s what you call mountain ash.  I guess it tastes to them like pie does to us.”

“Well, Dol, I feel that you’re twitching all over with some question,” said Cyrus, detecting uneasy movements on the part of the younger boy who lay next to him.  “What is it, Chick?  Out with it!”

“I want to hear about moose-calling,” so spoke Dol in heart-eager tones.

The guide swung his body to the music of a jingling laugh.

“Oh; that’s it; is it?” he said.  “You’re stuck on winning those antlers; ain’t you, Dol?  Well, calling is the ‘moose-hunter’s secret,’ and it’s a secret that he don’t want to give away to every one.  When a man is a good caller he’s kind o’ jealous about keeping the trick to himself.  But I’ll tell you how it’s done, anyhow, and give you a lesson sometime.  Sakes alive! if you Britishers could only take over a birch-bark trumpet, and give that call in England, you’d make nearly as much fuss as Buffalo Bill did with his cowboys and Injuns.  Only ’twould be a onesided game, for there’d be no moose to answer.”

The young Farrars were silent, breathlessly waiting for more.  The camp-firelight showed their absorbed faces; it played upon bronzed cheeks, where the ruddy tints of English boyhood had been replaced by a duller, hardier hue.  On Neal’s upper lip a fine, fair growth had sprouted, which looked white against his sun-tinged skin.  As for Cyrus, he had never brought a razor into the woods since that memorable trip when the bear had overhauled his knapsack; so the Bostonian’s chin was covered with a thick black stubble.

Neither of the youths, however, was at present giving a thought to his hirsute adornment, about which questionable compliments were frequently bandied.  Their minds were full of moose, and their ears alert for the guide’s next words.