THE SHEEP OF MOUNT SHELDON 269 



September 2. In the morning, each with a pack of 

 sixty pounds, we slowly toiled upward, fighting the dense 

 willows at every step. In the afternoon, timber-line was 

 reached and the tent pitched among scattered balsams 

 festooned with exquisite black moss hanging like silken 

 cobwebs from the branches. We could look down on 

 the lake below and command views to the north, east, 

 and south. Behind was a long fringe of spruce tops 

 adorning the golden horizon, while the peak of Mount 

 Sheldon glistened under the rays of the setting sun. 



September 3. Three inches of snow fell during the 

 night and the wet willows gave me a drenching before 

 reaching the south slope of the mountain, which I began 

 to climb. A strong, cold wind bringing snow and hail 

 came from the west and I was obliged to descend to the 

 timber and make a fire to dry my clothes. It cleared at 

 noon, and starting up the slope I had not gone far be- 

 fore seeing a bull moose just inside some scattered tim- 

 ber a mile distant at the west of the swamp meadow, 

 where the waters drain to the South Fork of MacMillan 

 River. 



His horns were of fair size and he was rubbing them 

 against a tree to clear them of the velvet. He would 

 either butt the tree or rub vigorously, and continued 

 these operations for some time. Then, after feeding for 

 awhile, he would begin rubbing on some other tree. 

 Once, pushing his horns into the branches of a fallen dead 

 tree, as if in a frenzy, he kept tossing it. I watched him 

 through my field-glasses for an hour, until he was in a 

 place favorable to approach. Then after circling to a 



