The Moose 245 



at first could not make out where the moose was ly 

 ing, until my eye was caught by the motion of his 

 big ears, as he occasionally flapped them lazily for 

 ward. Even then I could not see his outline; but I 

 knew where he was, and having pushed my rifle for 

 ward on the moss, I snapped a dry twig to make him 

 rise. My veins were thrilling and my heart beating 

 with that eager, fierce excitement, known only to the 

 hunter of big game, and forming one of the keenest 

 and strongest of the many pleasures which with him 

 go to make up &quot;the wild joy of living.&quot; 



As the sound of the snapping twig smote his ears 

 the moose rose nimbly to his feet, with a lightness 

 on which one would not have reckoned in a beast 

 so heavy of body. He stood broadside to me for a 

 moment, his ungainly head slightly turned, while his 

 ears twitched and his nostrils snuffed the air. Draw 

 ing a fine bead against his black hide, behind his 

 shoulder and two-thirds of his body s depth below 

 his shaggy withers, I pressed the trigger. He 

 neither flinched nor reeled, but started with his reg 

 ular ground-covering trot through the spruces; yet 

 I knew he was mine, for the light blood sprang from 

 both of his nostrils, and he fell dying on his side 

 before he had gone thirty rods. 



Later in the fall I was again hunting among the 

 lofty ranges which continue toward the southeast 

 the chain of the Bitter Root, between Idaho and 

 Montana. There were but two of us, and we were 



