6 RECREATION. 
muzzle violently twitched, and the 
great creature, instinct with wild, 
brute curiosity and terror, looked like 
some huge, misshapen monster left 
over from a prehistoric era. The 
pause was fatal. I knew I could not 
afford to wait. Whang! spoke the 
rifle again, with not 2 seconds’ inter- 
val between the reports. This time 
the moose made a wild leap into the 
air, and vanished down the rocks. 
“Bon!” shouted Gros Jean, “Ah’ll 
gas you hit heem!” 
At last Gros Jean was excited. The 
emotional French strain in him for the 
time being dominated the stoicism of 
the savage. He leaped forward, I fol- 
lowing, an excited second. Taking a 
header over a stump, I was busy a mo- 
ment, when I heard a war whoop, 
and, 
“Dis-a-way, M’steu!” 
Then I saw my prize. He sat on 
his haunches, a ragged hole, from 
which pulsated the life blood, ripped 
in his side. His long, sinewy forelegs 
were spread wide apart, supporting 
the massive shoulders and ugly, ant- 
lered head, which hung pendulously 
low. With expiring strength he 
floundered to his feet, only to fall 
again. He groaned in mortal agony, 
and, perhaps, who knows? with the 
shame of being conquered. Then the 
madness of death came on him; its 
glazing film dimmed the glory of his 
fiery eyes. The forest homestead, its 
green trees, its cliffs, its deep ravines 
aud mossy glades, were fading, fad- 
ing. The heavy nostrils, flecked with 
bloody foam, quivered in a last spasm 
cf pain, and he fell. His rule through- 
out that vast primeval domain was 
ended, for the lordly beast was dead. 
How big was he? Oh, that’s a 
guess; but Gros Jean, who is a good 
Yankee in some things, puts the weight 
at 1,200. The horns, however, meas- 
ure exactly 63 inches from tip to tip 
and carry 33 points. The web is 16% 
inches wide. In the ordinarily large 
bull the palmated breadth is about 8 
inches. Am I right, Gros Jean? 
“Au-haugh. Dat moose her so beeg 
lak you did say. Lucky t’ing we did 
raf’ her down de Maganasipi riviére 
to dis place, so de camp do see heem; 
but some oder bod-dee, perhap, not 
beleeve you did git soche beeg feller.” 
‘Perhaps not,’ was the answer. 
“But as you once pointedly remarked, 
my friend, ’n-importe. That makes 
little weight with one whose soul is 
conscious of rectitude. Skepticism 
is the homage which envy pays 
to success. That majestic shape 
hangs on yonder tree to refute the 
baseless charge of skeptics that its 
magnificent proportions were con- 
jured up in imagination. N’est ce 
pas, Gros Jean?’” 
“Au-haugh,” said the guide. 

AMATEUR PHOTO BY C. C. SPEIGHT 
NIGHT HAWK. 
One of the 20th Prize Winners in Recreation’s 7th Annual Photo Competition. 
