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 again 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 called so.  The first time I ever met him in summer, in strong contrast to the winter herd, made his name clear in a moment.  It was 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 a 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 onto the 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.