The Moose. 209 



line with this little hummock. We then dropped on our 

 hands and knees, and crept over the soft, wet sward, where 

 there was nothing to make a noise. Wherever the ground 

 rose at all we crawled flat on our bellies. The air was still, 

 for it was a very calm morning. 



At last we reached the hummock, and I got into po- 

 sition for a shot, taking a final look at my faithful 45-90 

 Winchester to see that all was in order. Peering cau- 

 tiously through the shielding evergreens, I at first could 

 not make out where the moose was lying, until my eye 

 was caught by the motion of his big ears, as he occa- 

 sionally flapped them lazily forward. Even then I could 

 not see his outline ; but I knew where he was, and having 

 pushed my rifle forward 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 "the wild joy of living." 



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. Drawing 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 regular ground-covering trot through the spruces ; 



