The horses were not saddled. One of the guides gave me his
and flung me on it. The Little Boy made his first essay at bareback
riding. In a wild scamper we were off, leaping logs and dodging trees.
The Little Boy fell off with a terrific thud, and sat up, looking
extremely surprised. And when we had got there, as clandestinely as a
steam calliope in a circus procession, the moose was gone. I sometimes
wonder, looking back, whether there really was a moose there or not. Did
I or did I not see a twinkle in Bill Shea's eye as he described the
sweep of the moose's horns? I wonder.
[Illustration: _The horses in the rope corral_]
Birds there were in plenty; wild ducks that swam across the lake at
terrific speed as we approached; plover-snipe, tiny gray birds with long
bills and white breasts, feeding along the edge of the lake peacefully
at our very feet; an eagle carrying a trout to her nest. Brown squirrels
came into the tents and ate our chocolate and wandered over us
fearlessly at night. Bears left tracks around the camp. But we saw none
after we left the Lake McDonald country.
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