A squirrel could hardly creep through that underbrush
without noise enough to tell where he was. But the bushes sway again,
and Mooween reappears suddenly for another long look at the suspicious
object. Then he turns and plods his way along shore, rolling his head
from side to side as if completely mystified.
Now swing your canoe well out into the lake, and head him off on the
point, a quarter of a mile below. Hold the canoe quiet just outside
the lily pads by grasping a few tough stems, and sit low. This time
the big object catches Mooween's eye as he rounds the point; and you
have only to sit still to see him go through the same maneuvers with
greater mystification than before.
Once, however, he varied his program, and gave me a terrible start,
letting me know for a moment just how it feels to be hunted, at the
same time showing with what marvelous stillness he can glide through
the thickest cover when he chooses.
It was early evening on a forest lake. The water lay like a great
mirror, with the sunset splendor still upon it. The hush of twilight
was over the wilderness. Only the hermit-thrushes sang wild and sweet
from a hundred dead spruce tops.
I was drifting about, partly in the hope to meet Mooween, whose tracks
were very numerous at the lower end of the lake, when I heard him
walking in the shallow water.
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