He seemed bewildered at not seeing his rival, ran swiftly along the bank, turned and came swinging back again, all the while uttering his hoarse challenge.  Then the canoe swung in the slight current; in getting control of it again the movement attracted his attention, and he saw me for the first time.  In a moment he was down the bank into shallow water, striking with his hoofs and tossing his huge head up and down like an angry bull.  Fortunately the water was deep, and he did not try to swim out; for there was not a weapon of any kind in the canoe.

When I started down towards the lake, after baiting the bull’s fury awhile by shaking the paddle and splashing water at him, he followed me along the bank, keeping up his threatening demonstrations.  Down near the lake he plunged suddenly ahead before I realized the danger, splashed out into the narrow opening in front of the canoe—­and there I was, trapped.

It was dark when I at last got out of it.  To get by the ugly beast in that narrow opening was out of the question, as I found out after a half-hour’s trying.  Just at dusk I turned the canoe and paddled slowly back; and the moose, leaving his post, followed as before along the bank.  At the upper side of a little bay I paddled close up to shore, and waited till he ran round, almost up to me, before backing out into deep water.  Splashing seemed to madden the brute, so I splashed him, till in his fury he waded out deeper and deeper, to strike the exasperating canoe with his antlers.  When he would follow no further, I swung the canoe suddenly, and headed for the opening at a racing stroke.  I had a fair start before he understood the trick; but I never turned to see how he made the bank and circled the little bay.  The splash and plunge of hoofs was fearfully close behind me as the canoe shot through the opening; and as the little bark swung round on the open waters of the lake, for a final splash and flourish of the paddle, and a yell or two of derision, there stood the bull in the inlet, still thrashing his antlers and gritting his teeth; and there I left him.

The season of calling is a short one, beginning early in September and lasting till the middle of October.  Occasionally a bull will answer as late as November, but this is unusual.  In this season a perfectly still night is perhaps the first requisite.  The bull, when he hears the call, will often approach to within a hundred yards without making a sound.  It is simply wonderful how still the great brute can be as he moves slowly through the woods.  Then he makes a wide circuit till he has gone completely round the spot where he heard the call; and if there is the slightest breeze blowing he scents the danger, and is off on the instant.  On a still night his big trumpet-shaped ears are marvelously acute.  Only absolute silence on the hunter’s part can insure success.

Another condition quite as essential is moonlight.  The moose sometimes calls just before dusk and just before sunrise; but the bull is more wary at such times, and very loth to show himself in the open.  Night diminishes his extreme caution, and unless he has been hunted he responds more readily.  Only a bright moonlight can give any accuracy to a rifle-shot.  To attempt it by starlight would result simply in frightening the game, or possibly running into danger.