giving protection from enemies; dense underbrush screened them from
prying eyes--and this was their schoolroom.

The little ones were pushed out into the middle, away from the
mothers to whom they clung instinctively, and were left to get
acquainted with each other, which they did very shyly at first, like
so many strange children. It was all new and curious, this meeting of
their kind; for till now they had lived in dense solitudes, each one
knowing no living creature save its own mother. Some were timid, and
backed away as far as possible into the shadow, looking with wild,
wide eyes from one to another of the little caribou, and bolting to
their mothers' sides at every unusual movement. Others were bold, and
took to butting at the first encounter. But careful, kindly eyes
watched over them. Now and then a mother caribou would come from the
shadows and push a little one gently from his retreat under a bush out
into the company. Another would push her way between two heads that
lowered at each other threateningly, and say with a warning shake of
her head that butting was no good way to get along together. I had
once thought, watching a herd on the barrens through my glasses, that
they are the gentlest of animals with each other. Here in the little
school in the heart of the swamp I found the explanation of things.

For over an hour I lay there and watched, my curiosity growing more
eager every moment; for most of what I saw I could not comprehend,
having no key, nor understanding why certain youngsters, who needed
reproof according to my standards, were let alone, and others kept
moving constantly, and still others led aside often to be talked to by
their mothers. But at last came a lesson in which all joined, and
which could not be misunderstood, not even by a man. It was the
jumping lesson.