196 Moose -Hunting in Canada. 



all was perfectly still. There was not the slightest sound of any- 

 thing moving in the forest, except that of the unfrequent flight of a 

 moose-bird close by. And so I sat watching that most glorious 

 transformation scene — the change of day into night; saw the great 

 sun sink slowly down behind the pine trees ; saw the few clouds that 

 hovered motionless above me blaze into the color of bright burnished 

 gold ; saw the whole atmosphere become glorious with a soft yellow 

 light, gradually dying out as the night crept on, till only in the 

 western sky there lingered a faint glow, fading into a pale cold 

 apple-green, against which the pines stood out as black as midnight, 

 and as sharply defined as though cut out of steel. As the darkness 

 deepened, a young crescent moon shone out pale and clear, with a 

 glittering star a little below the lower horn, and above her another 

 star of lesser magnitude. It looked as though a supernatural jewel 

 — a heavenly pendant, two great diamond solitaires, and a diamond 

 crescent — were hanging in the western sky. After awhile, the 

 moon, too, sank behind the trees, and darkness fell upon the earth. 



I know of nothing more enchanting than a perfectly calm and 

 silent autumnal sunset in the woods, unless it be the sunrise, which, 

 to my mind, is more lovely still. Sunset is beautiful, but sad ; sun- 

 rise is equally beautiful, and full of life, happiness, and hope. I love 

 to watch the stars begin to fade, to see the first faint white light 

 clear up the darkness of the eastern sky, and gradually deepen into 

 the glorious coloring that heralds the approaching sun. I love to 

 see Nature awake shuddering, as she always does, and arouse her- 

 self into active, busy life ; to note the insects, birds, and beasts shake 

 off slumber and set about their daily tasks. 



Still, the sunset is inexpressibly, lovely, and I do not envy the 

 condition and frame of mind of a man who cannot be as nearly 

 happy as man can be, when he is lying comfortably on a luxurious 

 and soft couch, gazing in perfect peace on the glorious scene around 

 him, rejoicing all his senses, and saturating himself with the wonder- 

 ful beauties of a northern sunset. 



So I sat quietly below, while the Indian called from the tree-top. 

 Not a sound answered to the three or four long-drawn-out notes with 

 which he hoped to lure the bull. After a long interval he called again, 

 but the same perfect, utter silence reigned in the woods, a silence 

 broken only by the melancholy hooting of an owl, or the imaginary 



