The Wapiti 195 



valley, a little way from us, their notes echoing 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 glim- 

 mered white, and lay in feathery masses on the 

 branches of the balsams and young pines. The air 

 rang with the challenges of many wapiti; their in- 

 cessant calling came pealing down through the still, 

 snow-laden woods. First one bull challenged ; then 

 another answered ; then another and another. Two 

 herds were approaching one another from opposite 

 sides of the valley, a short distance above our camp ; 

 and the master bulls were roaring defiance as they 

 mustered their harems. 



I walked stealthily up the valley, until I felt that 

 I was nearly between the two herds ; and then stood 

 motionless under a tall pine. The ground was quite 

 open at this point, the pines, though large, being scat- 

 tered; the little brook ran with a strangled murmur 

 between its rows of willows and alders, for the ice 

 along its edges nearly skimmed its breadth. The 

 stars paled rapidly, the gray dawn brightened, and 

 in the sky overhead faint rose-colored streaks were 

 turning blood-red. What little wind there was 

 breathed in my face and kept me from discovery. 



