THE MOOSE OF MINNESOTA 
the big moose. We sprang forward in 
eagerness, following swiftly though silently, 
keeping a keen eye ahead. We came to a 
small barren, and at a glance saw that the 
trail led straight across the open into a 
clump of trees that stood like an island in 
the sea of snow. Sending my companion to 
the leeward, I circled around to the wind- 
ward. Thus, if the moose were in the 
copse, he would get my scent and break 
cover at the leeward, giving my companion 
a clear shot. But when I had nearly com- 
pleted the circle, I again found his tracks, 
striking away toward the forest on the other 
side. We entered the woods and crept 
along, each as silently as a lynx, for the 
trail was getting very fresh. Then we 
caught the sound of swishing limbs, which 
told that he was feeding a short distance 
ahead. I dropped on all fours in the snow 
and crawled forward. The underbrush was 
so thick that I despaired of a clear shot. 
Nearer and nearer I crept, nursing the rifle 
to keep the muzzle free from snow, my 
trigger hand bared, until at last I made out 
the huge bulk of the moose. Aiming at 
what I thought to be his shoulders, I fired, 
and he dropped in his tracks. I drew my 
knife and went forward to bleed him. As 
I walked up I stopped to lean my rifle 
against a tree, and was instantly startled by 
449 
a noise. I looked around just as the moose 
was getting on his feet. And then the 
occasional newspaper stories of moose 
hunts I had laughed at flashed through my 
brain like a moving-picture film; for with 
head down the moose charged me, furious 
rage in every outline. I threw my rifle to 
my shoulder, took quick aim between the 
eyes and pulled the trigger. The great 
brute fell “‘at my feet ””—just as the wounded 
bull moose always had done in the news- 
paper stories I had laughed about. And so 
I laughed again, in a sickly way—but it 
must have been from the nervous reaction 
of the finish of our long, hard hunt and 
my perhaps narrow escape; there was 
nothing funny about it. 
And before we had tramped the thirty- 
odd miles through the snow with the head 
and the hide to get out of the woods we 
were agreed that its killing had been for us 
quite a serious matter. I remember how, 
mile after mile, I tramped in silence, trying 
to figure out what had made me laugh; the 
heavy antlers wearing into my shoulders, 
the tump-line chafing my head and an 
impulse tugging at my tongue to cry out to 
my hunting partner to stop andrest. And as 
I recall it now, I came to the uncompro- 
mising conclusion that really the laugh was 
on me—and it was, in more ways than one. 


A MOOSE-HUNTERS’ CAMP—ON HAND FOR THE OPENING DAY OF 
THE SEASON 
