Nevertheless, the moose was on his mind. Again in his dreams he
imagined himself back by the quiet, shining logon, listening to the ring
of the antlers as they struck the trees, and to the heaving snorts and
deep grunts of the noble game as it tore through the forest to its
death.
The moose was on the minds of his companions too. Again and again they
awoke, and pictured him lying by the pond, where he had fallen,--a dead
monarch. They tossed and grumbled, longing for day.
Neal and Dol surprised themselves and their elders by being up and
dressed shortly after five, before a streak of light had entered the
cabin. But their guide was not much behind them. Herb had the camp-fire
going well, and was preparing breakfast before six o'clock. The campers
tucked away a substantial meal of fried pork, potatoes, and coffee. The
first glories of the young sun fell on their way as they started across
the clearing and away through the woods beyond, towards the distant pond
where the hunter had got his moose.
Lying amid the small growth and grasses, by a lonely, glinting logon,
they found the conquered king, sleeping that sleep from which never sun
again would wake him.
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