He ramped and raged, tearing from one tree to another,
expending paroxysms of force in vain attempts to overturn one or the
other of them. The ground seemed to shake under his thundering hoofs.
His eyes were full of green fire; his nostrils twitched; the black
tassel or "bell" hanging from his shaggy throat shook with every angry
movement; his muffle, the big overhanging upper lip, was spotted with
foam.
As he gulped, grunted, snorted, and roared, his uncouth, guttural noises
made him seem more than ever like a curious creature of earth's earliest
ages.
"We came pretty near to being goners, Dol, I tell you!" carolled Cyrus
again from his high perch in the hemlock, carrying on a by-play with the
enemy between each sentence. "How in the name of wonder did you manage
such a call? It would have moved the heart-strings of any moose. I was
lying flat, you know, peeping through a little gap in the bushes, and
you had scarcely taken the horn from your mouth when I saw the old
fellow come stamping out of the woods. My! wasn't he a sight? He stood
for a minute looking about for the fancied cow; then he bellowed, and
started towards the knoll.
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