Caribou are naturally poor jumpers. Beside a deer, who often goes out
of his way to jump a fallen tree just for the fun of it, they have no
show whatever; though they can travel much farther in a day and much
easier. Their gait is a swinging trot, from which it is impossible to
jump; and if you frighten them out of their trot into a gallop and
keep them at it, they soon grow exhausted. Countless generations on
the northern wastes, where there is no need of jumping, have bred this
habit, and modified their muscles accordingly. But now a race of
caribou has moved south into the woods, where great trees lie fallen
across the way, and where, if Megaleep is in a hurry or there is
anybody behind him, jumping is a necessity. Still he doesn't like it,
and avoids it whenever possible. The little ones, left to themselves,
would always crawl under a tree, or trot round it. And this is another
thing to overcome, and another lesson to be taught in the caribou
school.

As I watched them the mothers all came out from the shadows and began
trotting round the opening, the little ones keeping close as possible,
each one to its mother's side. Then the old ones went faster; the
calves were left in a long line stringing out behind. Suddenly the
leader veered in to the edge of the timber and went over a fallen tree
with a jump; the cows followed splendidly, rising on one side, falling
gracefully on the other, like gray waves racing past the end of a
jetty. But the first little one dropped his head obstinately at the
tree and stopped short. The next one did the same thing; only he ran
his head into the first one's legs and knocked them out from under
him. The others whirled with a _ba-a-a-ah_, and scampered round the
tree and up to their mothers, who had turned now and stood watching
anxiously to see the effect of their lesson. Then it began over again.