Page:They who walk in the wilds, (IA theywhowalkinwil00robe).pdf/202



across the wide, wooded valley of the lone Tin Kettle, borne clearly on the frosty and sparkling air, came the sharp sounds of axe-strokes biting rhythmically into solid timber.

The great moose bull, who had been drowsing in the dusky depths of the fir thicket, beside his hump-shouldered cow and her two long-muzzled, leggy calves, shot his big ears forwards like an apprehensive rabbit, lifted his huge, ungainly head, distended his moist nostrils, and sniffed anxiously. They were so super-sensitive, those expert nostrils, and the wilderness air was so clean, that even across the wide expanse he could detect the acrid tang of wood-smoke. Heaving up his black bulk with no more noise than if he had been a shadow, he parted the branches cautiously with his long muzzle and peered forth.

It took him but very few moments to realize what had happened. The lumbermen had come back to the old, long-deserted camp across the valley. All winter through, the valley would ring with rough voices, with the sharp percussion of the axe