Seating herself on a moss covered rock, she began thrumming the strings of her violin. Then she sent out some little plaintive snatches of song.
She paused to lean far forward, intent, alert, expectant. Yes, there it was. A bird had answered.
After listening with all her ears, she imitated his call. Then she listened again.
“Yes, yes, my little one!” Her heart warmed to the tiny whistler of Greenstone Ridge. “He’s coming closer.”
Once more she repeated his song. This time there were two replies, one near and one far away. Soon it seemed the bushes, the trees, the very air was filled with little gray and brown songsters. Thrilled by this unique experience, she forgot both time and place as she proceeded to charm her tiny auditors.
Place was brought back to her with startling force. Some great creature came thrashing through the brush.
With a low cry, she gripped her precious violin and sprang for the nearest tree.
Just in time she was, for a bull moose charged full upon the spot where she had been. Why he charged will remain a mystery. Perhaps he did not love music. Perhaps he was just mean by nature. Enough that he was here; and here, beyond a shadow of a doubt, he meant to stay.
Having spent a full ten minutes sharpening his jagged antlers on a dead cottonwood tree, he marched up to Greta’s fir tree, leaned his full weight against it, then gave forth a most terrifying roar. Finding the tree quite solid and alive, he dropped with a grunt on the bed of moss at the foot of the tree and pretended at least to fall asleep.
“Our next number,” Greta said quite soberly, “will be a cradle song entitled ‘When father moose goes to sleep.’”