A NOBLE ANIMAL—BUT 'TWAS JUNE.
The waters of Black Pond, which but a scarce hour before had been lashed into foam by a southwardly breeze, were silent. In the west the myriad tints of a golden sunset were disappearing and the tiny stars were beginning to peep through their blanket of blue. Against this majestic picture, in the foreground, stood tall pines, rising like sentinels from the bog in which for years they had found their growth. Far out on the lake could be heard the solitary cry of a loon calling to his mate. What can be more sublime, more entertaining, to the true sportsman than to be left alone with nature in this paradise? A suggestion from the guide that we skirt the shore and see if there be any game in the pond brought hearty approval from his employer, and seating myself in the bow, we were soon under way. Such music the tiny ripples make as they frolic and dance at the bow, as the craft glides noiselessly along, the whirr of many wings, and a large flock of wild ducks are up and away at our approach. The moon is on the rise, and lights this woodland paradise with its shining rays. Suddenly a loud splashing was heard down the shore not many rods distant, and the guide sheers off so as to approach the forest denizen from the side. Again the splashing, and twenty rods distant can be seen a large moose, throwing the water from off his sides, unconscious of
COW MOOSE ON SHORE OF ALLAGASH LAKE.
Photographed from Life.
any human intruders. Such a picture as he made, standing side on, fearless and brave. The guide had stopped paddling, and the momentum gained was carrying us nearer every second. Suddenly, coming into his line of vision, he turned his head in our direction and showed us a most magnificent pair of velvet-covered antlers. In his eye was the look of defiance, and, with his great head lifted high in the air, the water still dripping from his brown coat, he seemed to say, "Well, it's June, what are you going to do about it?" And so it was. We left him, and slowly paddled back to camp, wishing that the seasons for a scarce minute had changed,—that October had been June, that June had been October,—and most of all that we could have used a rifle.
The Ablest Romance in Moose History is thus Described:
The man who tells it says he was hunting in the mountains of Nova Scotia, when he saw a huge bull moose grazing on a patch of moss, a hundred yards away. He up and fired but when the smoke had cleared away, there stood the moose grazing as before.
Again he fired, and again he was chagrined to see that the moose didn't seem to mind it. A third shot, and the moose disappeared. Much excited, the hunter ran to the moss patch, and there, on the further slope, lay three dead moose. Pretty risky story to tell in Maine.