BIG GAME OF NORTH AMERICA 409 



one of the forty or fifty beasts which live all the year round in 

 this little district is within that dark belt of timber, worse luck 

 to it ! 



Since June there has been no rain in the State of Colorado, 

 nor can even the most sanguine of us see any promise of rain 

 to come in the crystal clear vault above us. 



By day the sun is hot enough to make men sit about in 

 their shirt-sleeves, but by night the frost makes us draw our 

 blankets closer, and almost wish for another pair. It is perfect 

 weather for picnicing in the woods, but it is impossible weather 

 lor still hunting. 



Between them, sun and frost and mountain air have made 

 the woods dry as a chip and crisp as a biscuit. The woodland 

 solitudes are more noisy than Chinatown at New Year : the 

 leaves rattle like dead men's bones, and the twigs seem to 

 explode like fire-crackers under your feet. 



But it is September ; the hunter's moon has begun, and 

 now and again, just about dawn or towards evening, there is a 

 hollow whistle from the depths of the pine forests, followed by 

 a succession of hoarse choking grunts. This is the love song 

 of the great bull, and for the moment he is careless of rustling 

 leaves and snapped twigs, and, being in love, is as great a fool 

 as a biped under similar circumstances. Nor is love the bull 

 elk's only excuse for imprudence just now. In summer the 

 great woods are still, but for the hum of insect life ; in winter 

 they are still as death ; but now, in late autumn, they are full 

 of sounds. Winter is coming, and everything that has breath 

 is busy laying in stores for the approaching snow-time. All 

 day long there is a rattle among the brush as creatures bustle 

 through it ; all day long the great fir-cones come thumping 

 down from the pine-tops, while the squirrels who are gathering 

 them chatter and swear at one another with the vigour and 

 bitterness of rivals in business. Chipmunks, engaged in the 

 same work of harvest, skip like long-legged streaks of light 

 along the logs, and the short- tailed grey rats are as busy as 

 either squirrels or chipmunks. As you cross the hill-side, your 



