"There were wildcats and foxes and a pair of big, tuft-eared, wild-eyed
lynxes living about the lake, and these all came creeping up one after
another, under the cover of the thickets, to stare in amazement at the
alien little one so tenderly mothered by the great cow moose. They had
seen calves, on the farms of the settlement, and they regarded this one
not only with the greed of the hungry prowler, but with a particularly
cruel hostility as one of the retainers of feared and hated Man. But
for all their anger they took care not to thrust themselves upon the
attention of the moose. They appreciated too well the fury of her
mother wrath, the swiftness and deadliness of the stroke of her
knife-edged forehooves. They were not going to let their curiosity
obscure their discretion, you may be sure, like some of the childish
deer and antelope often do."

"Why?" interrupted the Child eagerly, being all at once consumingly
anxious to know what the deer and antelope were curious about. But
Uncle Andy paid no attention whatever.

"Then, one morning," he continued, "two other moose cows came along up
the lake shore, followed by their long-legged, shambling youngsters.
They stopped to discuss the condition of lily roots with their tall
sister; but at the sight of her nursing and petting and mothering a
_calf_--a baby of the cattle tribe whom they despised and hated for its
subservience to man and for living tamely behind fences, they became
quite disagreeable. They sniffed loudly and superciliously. The calf,
however, looking very small and neat and bright in her clean coat of
fawn color beside the gaunt, awkward moose babies, was not in the least
afraid of the disagreeable strangers. She pranced up boldly to
investigate them.