The Wapiti or Rotind-Homed Elk. 165 



when several rivals are answering one another, on some 

 frosty moonlight night in the mountains. The wild melody 

 rings from chasm to chasm under the giant pines, sustained 

 and modulated, through bar after bar, filled with challenge 

 and proud anger. It thrills the soul of the listening hunter. 



Once, while in the mountains, I listened to a peculiarly 

 grand chorus of this kind. We were travelling with pack 

 ponies at the time, and our tent was pitched in a grove of 

 yellow pine, by a brook in the bottom of a valley. On 

 either hand rose the mountains, covered with spruce forest. 

 It was in September, and the first snow had just fallen. 



The day before we had walked long and hard ; and 

 during the night I slept the heavy sleep of the weary. 

 Early in the morning, just as the east began to grow gray, 

 I waked ; and as I did so, the sounds that smote on m}'' 

 ear, caused me to sit up and throw off the warm blankets. 

 Bull elk were challenging among the mountains on both 

 sides of the valley, a little way from us, their notes echo- 

 ing like the calling of silver bugles. Groping about in the 

 dark, I drew on my trousers, an extra pair of thick socks, 

 and my moccasins, donned a warm jacket, found my fur 

 cap and gloves, and stole out of the tent with my rifle. 



The air was very cold ; the stars were beginning to 

 pale in the dawn ; on the ground the snow glimmered 

 white, and lay in feathery masses on the branches of the 

 balsams and young pines. The air rang with the chal- 

 lenges of many wapiti ; their incessant calling came peal- 

 ing down through the still, snow-laden woods. First one 

 bull challenged ; then another answered ; then another 

 and another. Two herds were approaching one another 



