ich milk like cream, as every good
Jersey should? You can think all that out for yourself, you know."

"But the moose cow," persisted the Child. "Didn't she feel _dreadful_?"

"Well," agreed Uncle Andy, "perhaps she did. But don't you go worrying
about that. She got over it. The next spring she had another calf, a
real moose calf, to look after, you know."

CHAPTER X

WHAT HE SAW WHEN HE KEPT STILL

The Child was beginning to feel that if he could not move very soon
he'd burst.

Of course, under Uncle Andy's precise instructions he had settled
himself in the most comfortable position possible before starting upon
the tremendous undertaking of keeping perfectly still for a long time.
To hold oneself perfectly still and to keep the position as tirelessly
as the most patient of the wild creatures themselves--this, he had been
taught by Uncle Andy, was one of the first essentials to the
acquirement of true woodcraft, as only such stillness and such patience
could admit one to anything like a real view of the secrets of the
wild. Even the least shy of the wilderness folk are averse to going
about their private and personal affairs under the eyes of strangers,
and what the Child aspired to was the knowledge of how to catch them
off their guard. He would learn to see for himself how the rabbits and
the partridges, the woodchucks and the weasels, the red deer, the
porcupines, and all the other furtive folk who had their habitations
around the tranquil shores of Silverwater, were really accustomed to
behave themselves when they felt quite sure no one was looking.

Before consenting to the Child's initiation, Uncle Andy had impressed
upon him with the greatest care the enormity of breaking the spell of
stillness by even the slightest and most innocent-seeming movement.

"You see," had said Uncle Andy, "it's this way! When we get to the
place where we are going to hide and watch, you may think that we're
quite alone. But not so. From almost every bush, from surely every
thicket, there'll be at least one pair of bright eyes staring at
us--maybe several pairs. They'll be wondering what we've come for;
they'll be disliking us for being so clumsy and making such a racket,
and they'll be keeping just as still as so many stones in the hope that
we won't see them--except, of course, certain of the birds, which fly
in the open and are used to being seen, and don't care a hang for us
because they think us such poo