paths out there. The grass covers a quagmire, but of quagmires the
moose-calf knows nothing, having been born upon a mountain.

"Being a fool, the moose-calf soon tires of the beaten paths. He
ventures downward toward the plain. A wolf, skulking through the scrub
at the foot of the mountain, encounters, by chance, the moose-calf.
The calf is fat. But, the wolf is cunning. He dares not harm the
moose-calf hard by the trails of the mountain. He becomes friendly,
and the fool moose-calf tells the wolf where he is bound. The wolf
offers to accompany him, and the moose-calf is glad--here is a
friend--one who is wiser than the moose-kind, for he fears not to
venture into the country of no trails.

"Between the mountain and the plain stands a tree. This tree the wolf
hates. Many squirrels work about its roots, and these squirrels are
fatter than the squirrels of the scrub, for the tree feeds them. But,
when the wolf would pounce upon them, they seek safety in the tree.
The moose-calf--the poor fool moose-calf--comes to this tree, and,
finding no paths curving around its base, becomes enraged because the
tree does not step aside and yield the right of way. He will charge
the tree! He does not know that the tree has been growing for many
years, and has become deeply rooted--immovable. The wolf looks on and
smiles. If the moose-calf butts the tree down, the wolf will get the
squirrels--and the calf. If the calf does not, the wolf will get the
calf."

MacNair ceased speaking and turned abruptly toward the river.

"My!" Chloe Elliston exclaimed. "Really, you are delightful, Mr. Brute
MacNair. During the half-hour or more of our acquaintance you have
called me, among other things, a fool, a goose, and a moose-calf. I
repeat that you are delightful, and honest, shall I say? No;
candid--for I know that you are not honest. But do tell me the rest of
the story. Don't leave it like The Lady or the Tiger. How will it
end? Are you a prophet, or merely an allegorist?"

MacNair, who was again facing her, answered without a smile. "I do not
know about the lady or the tiger, nor of what happened to either. If
they were pitted against each other, my bet would be laid on the tiger,
though my sympathy might be with the lady. I am not a prophet. I
cannot tell you the end of the story. Maybe the fool moose-calf will
butt its brains out against the trunk of the tree. That would be no
fault of the tree. The tree w