MEGALEEP
THE WANDERER
MEGALEEP
is the big woodland caribou of the northern wilderness. His Milicete
name means
The Wandering One, but it ought to mean the Mysterious and the
Changeful as
well. If you hear that he is bold and fearless, that is true; and if
you are
told that he is shy and wary and inapproachable, that is also true. For
he is
never the same two days in succession. At once shy and bold, solitary
and
gregarious; restless as a cloud, yet clinging to his feeding grounds,
spite of
wolves and hunters, till he leaves them of his own free will; wild as
Kakagos
the raven, but inquisitive as a blue jay, — he is the most
fascinating and the
least known of all the deer.
I had
always heard and read of Megaleep as an awkward, ungainly animal, but
almost my
first glimpse of him scattered all that to the winds and set my nerves
a-tingling in a way that they still remember. It was on a great chain
of barrens
in the New Brunswick wilderness. I was following the trail of a herd of
caribou
one day, when far ahead a strange clacking sound came ringing across
the snow in
the crisp winter air. I ran ahead to a point of woods that cut off my
view from
a five-mile barren, only to catch breath in astonishment and drop to
cover
behind a scrub spruce. Away up the barren my caribou, a big herd of
them, were
coming like an express train straight towards me. At first I could make
out only
a great cloud of steam, a whirl of flying snow, and here and there the
angry
shake of wide antlers or the gleam of a black muzzle. The loud clacking
of their
hoofs, sweeping nearer and nearer, gave a snap, a tingle, a wild
exhilaration to
their rush which made one want to shout and swing his hat. Presently I
could
make out the individual animals through the cloud of vapor that drove
down the
wind before them. They were going at a splendid trot, rocking easily
from side
to side like pacing colts, — power, grace, tirelessness in
every stride. Their
heads were high, their muzzles up, the antlers well back on heaving
shoulders.
Jets of steam burst from their nostrils at every bound ; for the
thermometer was twenty below zero, and the air snapping. A
cloud of snow whirled out and up behind them; through it the antlers
waved like
bare oak boughs in the wind; the sound of their hoofs was like the
clicking of
mighty castanets. — “Oh for a sledge and bells!” I thought;
for Santa Claus
never had such a team.
THE
LEADING BULLS GAVE A FEW MIGHTY BOUNDS.
So
they came on swiftly, magnificently, straight on to the cover behind
which I
crouched with nerves thrilling as at a cavalry charge, till I sprang to
my feet
with a shout and swung my hat; for, as there was meat enough in camp, I
had
small wish to use my rifle, and no desire whatever to stand that rush
at close
quarters and be run down. There was a moment of wild confusion out on
the barren
just in front of me. The long swinging trot, that caribou never change
if they
can help it, was broken into an awkward jumping gallop. The front rank
reared,
plunged, snorted a warning, but were forced onward by the pressure
behind. Then
the leading bulls gave a few mighty bounds, which brought them close up
to me,
but left a clear space for the frightened, crowding animals behind. The
swiftest
shot ahead to the lead; the great herd lengthened out from its compact
mass;
swerved easily to the left, as at a word of command; crashed through
the fringe
of evergreen in which I had been hiding, — out into the
open with a wild
plunge and a loud cracking of hoofs, where they all settled into their
wonderful
trot again and kept on steadily across the barren below.
That
was the sight of a lifetime. One who saw it could never again think of
caribou
as ungainly animals. Megaleep belongs to the tribe of Ishmael. Indeed,
his Latin
name, as well as his Indian one, signifies The Wanderer; and if you
watch him a
little while you will understand perfectly why he is so called. The
first time I
ever met him in summer was at twilight, on a wilderness lake. I was
sitting in
my canoe by the inlet, wondering what kind of bait to use for a big
trout which
lived in an eddy behind the rock, and which disdained everything I
offered him.
The swallows were busy, skimming low and taking the young mosquitoes as
they
rose’ from the water. One dipped to the surface near the eddy. As he
came down
I saw a swift gleam in the depths below. He touched the water; there
was a
swirl, a splash — and the swallow was gone. The trout had
him.
Then
a cow caribou came out of the woods to a grassy point above me to
drink. First
she wandered all over the point, making it look afterwards as if a herd
had
passed. Then she took a sip of water by a rock, crossed to my side of
the point
and took a sip there; then to the end of the point, and another sip;
then back
to the first place. A nibble of grass, and she waded far out from shore
to sip
there; then back, with a nod to a lily pad, and a sip nearer the brook.
Finally
she meandered a long way up the shore out of sight, and when I picked
up the
paddle to go, she came back again. Truly a Wandergeist
of the woods, like the plover of the coast, who never knows what he
wants,
nor why he circles about so, nor where he is going next.
If
you follow the herds over the barrens and through the forest in winter,
you find
the same wandering, unsatisfied creature. And if you are a sportsman
and a keen
hunter, with well-established ways of trailing and stalking, you will
be driven
to desperation a score of times before you get acquainted with
Megaleep. He
travels enormous distances without any known object. His trail is
everywhere; he
is himself nowhere. You scour the country for a week, crossing
innumerable
trails, thinking the surrounding woods must be full of caribou; then a
man in a
lumber camp, where you are overtaken by night, tells you that he saw
the herd
you are after down on the Renous barrens, thirty miles below. You go
there, and
have the same experience, — signs everywhere, old signs,
new signs, but never
a caribou. And, ten to one, while you are there, the caribou are
sniffing your
snowshoe track suspiciously back on the barrens that you have just
left.
Even
in feeding, when you are hot on their trail and steal forward,
expecting to see
them every moment, it is the same endless story. They dig a hole
through four
feet of packed snow to nibble the reindeer lichen that grows everywhere
on the
barrens. Before it is half eaten they wander off to the next barren and
dig a
larger hole; then away to the woods for the gray-green hanging moss
that grows
in the spruces. Here is a fallen tree half covered with the rich food.
Megaleep
nibbles a bite or two, then wanders away and away in search of another
tree like
the one he has just left.
And
when you find him at last, the chances are still against you. You are
stealing
forward cautiously when a fresh sign attracts attention. You stop to
examine it
a moment. Something gray, dim, misty, seems to drift like a cloud
through the
trees ahead. You scarcely notice it till, on your right, a stir, and
another
cloud, and another — the caribou, quick, a score of them! But before
your rifle
is up and you have found the sights, the gray things melt into the gray
woods
and drift away; and the stalk begins all over again.
The
reason for this restlessness is not far to seek. Megaleep’s ancestors
followed
regular migrations in spring and autumn, like the birds, on the
unwooded plains
beyond the Arctic Circle. Megaleep never migrates; but the old instinct
is in
him and will not let him rest. So he wanders through the year, and is
never
satisfied.
Fortunately
nature has been kind to Megaleep, in providing him with means to
gratify his
wandering disposition. In winter, moose and red deer must gather into
yards and
stay there. With the first heavy storm of December, they gather in
small bands
on the hardwood ridges, and begin to make paths in the snow, — long,
twisted,
crooked paths, running for miles in every direction, crossing and
recrossing in
a tangle utterly hopeless to any head save that of a deer or moose.
These paths
they keep tramped down and more or less open all winter, so as to feed
on the
twigs and bark growing on either side. Were it not for this curious
habit, a
single severe winter would leave hardly a moose or a deer alive in the
woods;
for their hoofs are sharp and sink deep; with six feet of snow on a
level they
can run scarcely a mile outside their paths without becoming hopelessly
stalled
or exhausted.
It is
this great tangle of paths, by the way, which constitutes a deer or a
moose
yard.
But
Megaleep the Wanderer makes no such provision; he depends upon Mother
Nature to
take care of him. In summer he is brown, like the great tree trunks
among which
he moves unseen. Then the frog of his foot expands and grows spongy, so
that he
can cling to the mountain-side like a goat, or move silently over the
dead
leaves. In winter he becomes a soft gray, the better to fade into a
snowstorm,
or to stand concealed in plain
sight on the edges of the gray, desolate barrens that he loves. Then
the frog of
his foot arches up out of the way; the edges of his hoof grow sharp and
shell-like, so that he can travel over glare ice without slipping, and
cut the
crust to dig down for the moss upon which he feeds. The hoofs,
moreover, are
very large and deeply cleft, so as to spread widely when his weight is
on them.
When you first find his track in the snow, you rub your eyes, thinking
that a
huge ox must have passed that way. The dew-claws are also large, and
the ankle
joint so flexible that it lets them down upon the snow. So Megaleep has
a kind
of natural snowshoe with which he moves easily over the crust, and,
except in
very deep, soft snows, wanders at will, while other deer are prisoners
in their
yards. It is the snapping of these loose hoofs and ankle joints that
makes the
merry clacking sound as caribou run.
Sometimes,
however, they overestimate their abilities, and their wandering
disposition
brings them into trouble. Once I found a herd of seven up to their
backs in soft
snow, and tired out, — a strange condition for caribou to be in. They
were
taking the affair philosophically, resting till they should gather
strength to
flounder to some spruce tops, where moss was plenty. When I approached
gently on
snowshoes (I had been hunting them diligently the week before; but this
put a
different face on the matter) they gave a bound or two, then settled
deep in the
snow, and turned their heads and said with their great soft eyes: “You
have
hunted us. Here we are, at your mercy.”
They
were very much frightened at first; then I thought they grew a bit
curious, as I
laid my rifle aside and sat down peaceably in the snow to watch them.
One — a
doe, more exhausted than the others, and famished — even
nibbled a bit of moss
that I pushed near her with a stick. I had picked it with gloves, so
that the
smell of my hand was not on it. After an hour or so, if I moved softly,
they let
me approach quite up to them without shaking their antlers or
renewing their desperate attempts to flounder away. But I did not touch
them. That is a degradation which no wild creature will permit when he
is free;
and I would not take advantage of their helplessness.
“Did
they starve in the snow?” you ask. Oh, no! I went to the place next day
and
found that they had gained the spruce tops, ploughing through the snow
in great
bounds, following the track of the strongest, which went ahead to break
the way.
There they fed and rested, then went to some dense thickets where they
passed
the night. In a day or two the snow settled and hardened, and they took
to their
wandering again.
Later,
in hunting, I crossed their tracks several times, and once I saw them
across a
barren; but I left them undisturbed, to follow other trails. We had
eaten
together; they had fed from my hand; and there is no older truce on
earth than
that; not even in the unchanging East, where it originated.
Megaleep
in a storm is a most curious creature, the nearest thing to a ghost to
be found
in the woods. More than other animals he feels the falling barometer.
His
movements at such times drive you to desperation, if you are following
him; for
he wanders unceasingly. When the storm breaks he has a way of appearing
suddenly, as if he were seeking you, when, by his trail, you thought
him miles
ahead. And the way he disappears — just melts into the thick driving
flakes and
the shrouded trees — is most uncanny. Eight or ten caribou
once played
hide-and-seek with me that way, giving me vague glimpses here and
there, drawing
near to get my scent, yet keeping me looking up wind into the driving
snow,
where I could see nothing distinctly. And all the while they drifted
about like
so many huge flakes of the storm, watching my every movement, seeing me
perfectly.
At
such times they fear little, and even lay aside their usual caution. I
remember
trailing a large herd, one day, from early morning, keeping near them
all the
time and jumping them half a dozen times, yet never getting a glimpse
because of
their extreme watchfulness. For some reason they were unwilling to
leave a small
chain of barrens.
Perhaps
they knew the storm was coming, when they would be safe; and so,
instead of
swinging off into a ten-mile straightaway trot at the first alarm, they
kept
dodging back and forth within a two-mile circle. At last, late in the
afternoon,
I followed the trail to the edge of dense evergreen thickets. Caribou
generally
rest in open woods or on the windward edge of a barren. Eyes for the
open, nose
for the cover, is their motto. And I thought,” They know perfectly well
I am
following them, and so have lain down in that tangle. If I go in, they
will hear
me; a wood mouse could hardly keep quiet in such a place. If I go
round, they
will catch my scent. If I wait, so will they. If I jump them, the scrub
will
cover their retreat perfectly.”
As
I sat down in the snow to think it over, a heavy rush, deep within the
thicket,
told me that something — not I, certainly — had again started
them. Suddenly
the air darkened, and above the excitement of the hunt I felt the storm
coming.
A storm in the woods is no joke when you are six miles from camp
without axe or
blanket. I broke away from the trail and started for the head of the
second
barren on the run. If I make that, I was safe; for there was a stream
hard by,
which led to camp; and one cannot very well lose a stream, even in a
snowstorm.
But before I was out of the big timber the flakes were driving thick
and soft in
my face. Another half-mile, and one could not see fifty feet in any
direction.
Still I kept on, holding my course by the wind and my compass. Then, at
the foot
of the second barren, my snowshoes stumbled into great depressions in
the snow,
and I found myself on the fresh trail of my caribou again. “If I am
lost, I
will at least have a caribou steak, and a skin to wrap me up in,” I
said, and
plunged after them. As I went, the old Mother Goose rhyme of nursery
days came
back and set itself to hunting music:
Bye, baby
bunting,
Daddy ‘s gone a-hunting,
For to catch a rabbit skin
To wrap the baby bunting in.
|
Presently
I began to sing it aloud. It cheered one up in the storm, and the lilt
of it
kept time to the leaping kind of gallop, which is the easiest way to
run on
snowshoes: “Bye, baby bunting; bye, baby bunting — Hello!”
A dark mass loomed suddenly before me on the open barren. The storm
lightened a
bit, before setting in heavier; and there were the caribou, just in
front of me,
standing in a compact mass, the weaker ones in the middle. They had no
thought
nor fear of me, apparently; they showed no sign of anger or uneasiness.
Indeed,
they barely moved aside as I snow-shoed up, in plain sight, without any
precaution whatever. And these were the same animals that had fled upon
my
approach at daylight, and that had escaped me all day with marvelous
cunning.
As
with other deer, the storm is Megaleep’s natural protector. When it
comes he
thinks that he is safe; that nobody can see him; that the falling snow
will fill
his tracks and kill his scent; and that whatever follows must speedily
seek
cover for itself. So he gives up watching, and lies down where he will.
So far
as his natural enemies are concerned, he is safe in this; for lynx and
wolf and
panther seek shelter with a falling barometer. They can neither see nor
smell;
and they are all afraid. I have often noticed that, among all animals
and birds,
from the least to the greatest, there is always a truce when the storms
are out.
But
the most curious thing I ever stumbled into was a caribou school. That
sounds
queer; but it is more common in the wilderness than one thinks. All
gregarious
animals have perfectly well-defined social regulations, which the young
must
learn and respect. To learn them, they go to school in their own
interesting
way.
The
caribou I am speaking of now are all woodland caribou — larger, finer
animals
than the barren-ground caribou of the desolate unwooded regions farther
north.
In summer they live singly, rearing their young in deep forest
seclusions. There
each one does as he pleases. So when you meet a caribou in summer, he
is a
different creature, and has more unknown and curious ways than when he
runs with
the herd in midwinter.
I
remember a solitary old bull that lived on the mountain-side opposite
my camp,
one summer, — a most interesting mixture of fear and boldness, of
reserve and
intense curiosity. After I had followed him a few times and he found
that my
purpose was wholly peaceable, he took to hunting me in the same way,
just to
find out who I was, and what queer thing I was doing. Sometimes I would
see him
at sunset, on a dizzy cliff across the lake, watching for the curl of
smoke or
the coming of a canoe. And when I jumped in for a swim and went
splashing,
dog-paddle way, about the island where my tent was, he would walk about
in the
greatest excitement, and start a dozen times to come down; but always
he ran
back for another look, as if fascinated. Again he would come down on a
burned
point near the deep hole where I was fishing, and, hiding his body in
the
underbrush, would push his horns up into the bare branches of a
withered
shrub, so as to make them inconspicuous, and stand watching me. As long
as he
was quiet, it was impossible to see him there; but I could always make
him start
nervously by flashing a looking-glass, or flopping a fish in the water,
or
whistling a jolly Irish jig. And when I tied a bright tomato can to a
string and
set it whirling round my head, or set my handkerchief for a flag on the
end of
my trout rod, then he could not stand it another minute, but came
running down
to the shore, to stamp and fidget and stare nervously, and scare
himself with
twenty alarms while trying to make up his mind to swim out and satisfy
his
burning desire to know all about it. — But I am forgetting
the caribou
schools.
Wherever
there are barrens — treeless plains in the midst of dense
forest — the caribou
collect in small herds as winter comes on, following the old gregarious
instinct. Then each one cannot do as he pleases any more; and it is for
this
winter and spring life together, when laws must be known, and the
rights of the
individual be laid aside for the good of the herd, that the young are
trained.
One
afternoon in late summer I was drifting down the Toledi River, casting
for
trout, when a movement in the bushes ahead caught my attention. A great
swampy
tract of ground, covered with grass and low brush, spread out on either
side the
stream. From the canoe I made out two or three waving lines of bushes,
where
some animals were making their way through the swamp towards a strip of
big
timber, which formed a kind of island in the middle.
Pushing
my canoe into the grass, I made for a point just astern of the nearest
quivering
line of bushes. A glance at a bit of soft ground showed me the trail of
a mother
caribou with her calf. I followed cautiously, the wind being in my
favor. They
were not hurrying, and I took good pains not to alarm them.
When
I reached the timber and crept like a snake through the underbrush,
there were
the caribou, five or six mother animals and nearly twice as many little
ones,
well grown, which had evidently just come in from all directions. They
were
gathered in a natural opening, fairly clear of bushes, with a fallen
tree or
two, which served a good purpose later. The sunlight fell across it in
great
golden bars, making light and shadow to play in; all around was the
great marsh,
giving protection from enemies; dense underbrush screened them from
prying
eyes — and this was their schoolroom.
The
little ones were pushed out into the middle, away from the mothers to
whom they
clung instinctively, and were left to get acquainted with each other;
which they
did very shyly at first, like so many strange children. It was all new
and
curious, this meeting of their kind; for till now they had lived in
dense
solitudes, each one knowing no living creature save its own mother.
Some were
timid, and backed away as far as possible into the shadow, looking with
wild,
wide eyes from one to another of the little caribou, and bolting to
their
mothers’ sides at every unusual movement. Others were bold, and took to
butting at the first encounter. But
careful, kindly eyes watched over them. Now and then a mother caribou
would come
from the shadows and push a little one gently from his retreat, under a
bush,
out into the company. Another would push her way between two heads that
lowered
at each other threateningly, and say with a warning shake of her head
that
butting was no good way to get along together. I had once thought,
watching a
herd on the barrens through my glasses, that they are the gentlest of
animals
with each other. Here in the little school, in the heart of the swamp,
I found
the explanation of things.
For
over an hour I lay there and watched, my curiosity growing more eager
every
moment; for most of what I saw I could not comprehend, having no key,
nor
understanding why certain youngsters, who needed reproof according to
my
standards, were let alone, and others kept moving constantly, and still
others
led aside often to be talked to by their mothers. But at last came a
lesson in
which all joined, and which could not be misunderstood, not even by a
man. It
was the jumping lesson.
Caribou
are naturally poor jumpers. Beside a deer, who often goes out of his
way to jump
a fallen tree just for the fun of it, they have no show whatever;
though they
can travel much farther in a day and much easier. Their gait is a
swinging trot,
from which it is impossible to jump; and if you frighten them out of
their trot
into a gallop and keep them at it, they soon grow exhausted. Countless
generations on the northern wastes, where there is no need of jumping,
have bred
this habit, and modified their muscles accordingly. But now a race of
caribou
has moved south into the woods, where great trees lie fallen across the
way, and
where, if Megaleep is in a hurry or there is anybody behind him,
jumping is a
necessity. Still he does not like it, and avoids it whenever possible.
The
little ones, left to themselves, would always crawl under a tree, or
trot round
it. And this is another thing to overcome, and another lesson to be
taught in
the caribou school.
As
I watched them, the mothers all came out from the shadows and began
trotting
round the opening, the little ones keeping close as possible each one
to its
mother’s side. Then the old ones went faster; the calves were left in a
long
line stringing out behind. Suddenly the leader veered in to the edge of
the
timber and went over a fallen tree with a jump; the cows followed
splendidly,
rising on one side, falling gracefully on the other, like gray waves
racing past
the end of a jetty. But the first little one dropped his head
obstinately at the
tree and stopped short. The next one did the same thing; only he ran
his head
into the first one’s legs and knocked them out from under him. The
others
whirled with a ba-a-a-ah! and scampered round the tree and up to their
mothers,
who had now turned and stood watching anxiously to see the effect of
their
lesson. Then it began over again.
It
was true kindergarten teaching; for, under guise of a frolic, the
calves were
being taught a needful lesson, — not only to jump, but, far
more important
than that, to follow a leader, and to go where he goes without question
or
hesitation. For the leaders on the barrens are wise old bulls that make
no
mistakes. Most of the little caribou took to the sport very well, and
presently
followed the mothers over the low hurdles. But a few were timid; and
then came
the most intensely interesting bit of the whole strange school, when a
little
one would be led to a tree and butted from behind till he took the
jump.
There
was no “consent of the governed” in that governing. The mother knew,
and the
calf didn’t, just what was good for him.
It
was this last lesson that broke up the school. Just in front of my
hiding place
a tree fell out into the opening. A mother caribou brought her calf up
to this
unsuspectingly, and leaped over, expecting the little one to follow. As
she
struck she whirled like a top and stood like a beautiful statue, her
head
pointing in my direction. Her eyes were bright with fear, the ears set
forward,
the nostrils spread to catch every tainted atom from the air. Then she
turned
and glided silently away, the little one close to her side, looking up
and
touching her frequently, as if to whisper, What
Is It? What Is It? but making no sound. There was no signal given, no
alarm of any kind that I could understand; yet the lesson stopped
instantly. The
caribou glided away like shadows. Over across the opening a bush
swayed; here
and there a leaf quivered, as if something touched its branch. Then the
schoolroom was empty and the woods all still.
There
is another curious habit of Megaleep; and this one I am utterly at a
loss to
account for. When he is old and feeble, and the tireless muscles will
no longer
carry him with the herd over the wind-swept barrens, and he falls sick
at last,
he goes to a spot far away in the woods, where generations of his
ancestors have
preceded him, and there lays him down to die. It is the caribou burying
ground;
and all the animals of a certain district, or a certain herd, will go
there when
sick or sore wounded, if they have strength enough to reach the spot.
For it is
far away from the scene of their summer homes and their winter
wanderings.
I
know one such place, and visited it twice from my summer camp. It is in
a dark
tamarack swamp by a lonely lake, at the head of the Little-South-West
Miramichi
River, in New Brunswick. I found it, one summer, when trying to force
my way
from the big lake to a smaller one, where trout were plenty. In the
midst of the
swamp I stumbled upon a pair of caribou skeletons; which surprised me,
for there
were no hunters within a hundred miles, and at that time the lake had
been for
many years unvisited. I thought of fights between bucks, and bull
moose, — how
two bulls will sometimes lock horns in a rush, and are too weakened to
break the
lock, and so die together of exhaustion. Caribou are more peaceable;
they rarely
fight that way; and besides, the horns here were not locked together,
but lying
well apart. As I searched about, looking for the explanation of things,
thinking
of wolves, yet wondering why the bones were not gnawed, I found another
skeleton, much older, then four or five more; some quite fresh, others
crumbling
into mould. Bits of old bone and some splendid antlers were scattered
here and
there through the underbrush; and when I scraped away the dead leaves
and moss,
there were older bones and fragments mouldering beneath.
I
scarcely understood the meaning of it at the time; but since then I
have met
men, Indians and hunters, who have spent much time in the wilderness,
who speak
of “bone yards” which they have discovered, — places where
they can go at
any time and be sure of finding a good set of caribou antlers. And they
say that
the caribou go there to die.
All
animals, when feeble with age, or sickly, or wounded, have the habit of
going
away, deep into the loneliest coverts, and there lying down where the
leaves
will presently cover them. That is why one rarely finds a dead bird or
animal in
the woods, where thousands die yearly. Even your dog, that was born and
lived by
your house, often disappears when you thought him too feeble to walk.
Death
calls him gently; the old wolf stirs deep within him, and he goes away,
where
the master he served will never find him. And so with your cat, which
is only
skin-deep a domestic animal; and so with your canary, which in death
alone would
be free, and beats his failing wings against the cage in which he lived
so long
content. But these all go away singly, each to his own place. The
caribou is the
only animal I know that remembers, when his separation comes, the ties
which
bound him to the herd, winter after winter, through sun and storm, in
the forest
where all was peace and plenty, on the lonely barrens where the gray
wolf howled
on his track; so that he turns, with his last strength, from the herd
he is
leaving to the greater herd which has gone before him — still
following his
leaders, remembering his first lesson to the end.
Sometimes
I have wondered whether this also were taught in the caribou school;
whether,
once in his life, Megaleep were led to the spot and made to pass
through it, so
that he should feel its meaning and remember. That is not likely; for
the one
thing which an animal cannot understand is death.
And
there were no signs of living caribou anywhere near the place that I
discovered;
though down at the other end of the lake their tracks were everywhere.
There
are other questions, which one can only ask without answering. Is this
silent
gathering merely a tribute to the old law of the herd; or does
Megaleep, with
his last strength, still think to cheat his old enemy, and go where the
wolf,
that followed him all his life, shall not find him? How was his resting
place
first selected, and what leaders searched out the ground? What sound or
sign,
what murmur of wind in the pines, or lap of ripples on the shore, or
song of the
veery at twilight made them pause and say, Here
is the place?
How does he know, he whose thoughts are all of life and who never
looked on
death, where the great silent herd is that no caribou ever sees but
once? And
what strange instinct guides Megaleep to the spot where all his
wanderings end
at last?
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