AN ELK SEASON. 149 



the nursery tale of Red Riding Hood up to the present. 

 His very name calls up a vision of the North, and even those 

 who know the slinking, nor always mangeless, creature of 

 fact are conscious of the touch of glamour that hangs about 

 his name. 



But though at that season no wolf was likely to be 

 visible, there was always a shadowy chance of seeing a 

 bear. How one longs to have the luck of 



" . . . Boys who unaware, 

 Ranging the woods to start a hare, 

 Come to the mouth of the dark lair 

 Where, growling low, a fierce old bear 

 Lies amidst bones and blood." 



However, the hunter in Norway generally lives on the 

 belief that on some incredibly lucky day he may meet with 

 a brown bear and so add to his record, if fate permitted, 

 the last (if we except the aurochs, the right of shooting 

 which is vested in the Czar and one or two of his nobles, 

 and which can therefore scarcely be included in the general 

 list), the very last, of the dangerous big game of Europe. 

 In using the term dangerous big game, I refer to each 

 species taken collectively, for, although not ordinarily 

 dangerous, the elk is said to attack on occasions, especially 

 in the rutting season. Nearly every Norwegian hunter has 

 a story to tell of an elk that with its powerful fore hoofs 

 has torn open a man's body. A few of these tales may be 

 true, but it is certainly also true that a man may follow elk 

 for fifty seasons without coming upon that traditional 

 slem elg. 



On the 1 4th of September, late in the afternoon, we 

 had turned homewards through the forest, having failed to 

 find sign of elk, when suddenly without warning four great 

 grey shapes sprang up from among bushes and bracken 

 upon our left. Peder sent me an excited whisper, " Bool ! 

 Bool I " I ran forward and made out the horns of the bull, 



