Wood-folk comedies

by William J. Long

On this night, however, my taciturn bears became almost vociferous; in the space of an hour I heard more bear talk than one ordinarily hears in an entire season. They were bold, too, surprisingly bold, when I met three of them in a little opening not far from my tent. I had heard these bears coming and, as I hurried to head them off, had made more noise than I liked, not being able to see my footing. Far from being frightened by the disturbance, they seemed to be waiting in the opening to see what I was. The moment I appeared they rose on their hind legs, which stopped me in my tracks. Not quite satisfied, they shambled uneasily to and fro, occasionally sitting up for another look; and one of them, a little fellow, had a funny way of wagging his forepaws rapidly up and down in front of his chest. When they had enough of me, instead of rushing off headlong with crash of brush and bumping of logs, as bears commonly go when they meet a man, they melted into the woods like so many shadows.

The caribou is another silent beast that finds his voice only on rare occasions, in response to some urge that I do not yet understand. I had met scores of the animals in winter, a few also in summer; but, with the exception of one low call from a doe to her fawn, I had never heard a word of caribou talk till one early-autumn night, when a herd broke silence all together. On that night I lay broad awake in my tent, unable to sleep or to find a reason for my sleeplessness. Some subtle excitement was afoot; loons were crying it to the woods, owls crying it back to the lake; so presently I made my way to an old lumber road, thinking I would have a look at a chain of barrens under the moonlight. These barrens (flat, treeless bogs surrounded by dense forest) are lonely places at any time. By night, especially when the moon floods them with pale light, and mists wave over them, and little shrouded larches that stand on their edges seem to creep and quiver, they are the epitome of all solitude.

As I crossed the first barren, making no sound on the thick carpet of moss, a band of caribou filed out of the woods as if on a journey. The strange thing to me was, not the excitement of the band or the complete absence of fear, but that these silent brutes were now all talking, as wild geese talk to one another continually in flight. Though they must have seen me plainly, for I was very near, they passed without paying me the slightest attention; all but the big bull, who came at the end of the procession, and who evidently thought it was his business to challenge that motionless figure standing out on the empty bog. He stopped short, came a step toward me, stopped again, and I looked for a rare bit of bluffing. When you stand motionless near a band of caribou in a snowstorm, and they cannot tell what you are because they do not trust their eyes and you are to leeward of their keen noses, the bulls will sometimes rear up on their hind legs, looking enormously threatening as they paw the air with their broad forefeet. In this startling demonstration the woodland caribou differs, I think, from all other members of the deer family. But here the big bull was content to present his antlers, shaking them fiercely in my direction. Getting no answer to his challenge, not even a motion, he followed grunting after his band; and I had the impression that he was glad to go, having saved his face by doing what was expected of him.

I was on my way to the next barren when, from a point of woods on my left, a spikehorn bull came out on the trot, making me freeze in my tracks once more. Whether he mistook me for one of his tribe or was a bit moonstruck, as every other creature seemed to be that night, I could not tell. He ran up as if he had been expecting me, and thrust his nose within a yard of my face, so near that I saw his eyes glow like foxfire in the moonlight; then without a word he brushed past and ran away down the caribou trail.

I had taken only a few steps after the spikehorn left me, and was about to enter the woods to cross to the next barren, when a vixen squalled out loudly, as a cat squalls when you step on her tail. Instantly three or four young foxes, her cubs, undoubtedly, rushed out and scurried all over the trail at my feet. From the woods came a lively outcry, a petulant, bagpipey droning; but it was some time before the cubs paid enough attention to it to dive headlong for cover. And then I heard squalls of a different tenor, one angry, another protesting, as if some youngster were getting nipped for his heedlessness.

Such nights come very rarely, perhaps once in a long season of watching wild animals; and always they affect a man queerly, as if some lunacy were abroad, and he must share it with other natural creatures. I remember vividly one night, many years ago, so different from all others that it seemed to do violence to my experience of the quiet wilderness. The time was September, and the place a wild lake which is still, I am told, the best big-game region in New Brunswick. It was then an unhunted solitude.

During the day I had been ranging the woods, and had noticed that flocking birds were acting strangely, as chickens grow erratic when the barometer is rapidly falling. Yet no storm threatened; the weather, as I remember it, had been for some days unusually brilliant. Late in the afternoon, as I was catching a supper of trout at the inlet of the lake, Kook’skoos the horned owl suddenly started a racket; not his deep hunting call, but an uncanny hoo-hooing up and down the scale, as if he were possessed by some crazy notion. He was answered by others of his kind here or there; and when I stalked the nearest, to find out what was afoot, he upset all my notions of the solemn birds without giving me even a hint of answer to my question. Instead of perching on the top of a stub so as to look like a part of it, as horned owls habitually do, he was hopping up and down a horizontal branch, as if dancing a pas seul. Instead of holding perfectly still save for a vibration of the throat when he sent forth his call, as I had often seen him, he would swoop almost to the ground and whirl about in fantastic circles, at the same time uttering a rapid, guttural note, which ended in a wild yell as he sailed back to his perch.

When I reached camp after sundown, the excitement seemed to have spread widely to others. Kupkawis the barred owl was then going about demanding, Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you-all? and breaking out in wild clack-clacking before anybody could answer him.

By that time there was a tingle in the air, such as one feels before an electrical storm. Simmo, my smoky companion, was uneasy. I noticed that his eyes had no rest, that they were searching lake or sky or somber forest continually; but I did not question him, having learned to hold my tongue with an Indian; nor did I know enough about the woods to expect anything unusual. Besides, my thoughts were mostly on moose just then. I had found a pond hidden away among low hills and caribou bogs, its shores pitted with moose tracks, among which the slots of a monster bull appealed to my imagination. I intended to call him that night, and had carefully spotted the trail I must follow. When I told Simmo, who did not like my nocturnal rambles, he broke silence to advise me soberly.

“Now I goin’ tell you one t’ing: bes’ don’t go,” he said. “An’ if you do go, bes’ look out; be careful. Moose not hunted here, like down settlement way. I hear-um bull two, t’ree time, an’ he mitcheego, very cross. He come quick to-night if you call-um, an’ he don’t ’fraid of not’ing.”