SO many tourists, young and old, have come down into the Maine lake region the past summer camp out in the country of the whispering pine, and hunt that noble game, the moose, that I deem it not unlikely that many of our young folks, especially our boys, would enjoy a moose hunt,—even on paper. A prominent lumber-merchant of the Pine Tree State has kindly furnished me with one of his youthful exploits in this line, which I have attempted to write out.

There were four of us, and we were a rather queer party. There was old Ben Murch, a lumberman and hunter well known in that region; a was more young Peenobscot Indian named Lewis, or, as he was commonly called, " Lewey;" a young Boston chap named Larkin, but whom we had nicknamed "Larks," and myself. We had gone up as from Bangor to the head of Chesuncook Lake, then as now a sort of supply-depot for the logging-camps.

When I mention that one of our party was an Indian, some may perhaps think that he was a savage,—one of the blanketed, tomahawking sort. Quite the contrary. Lewey was a very sensible, matter-of-fact young man; dressed like a Christian, and saving a tendency to extreme brevity, spoke very fair English. Indeed, the fellow was quite a humorist in a certain, dry, terse way of his own, and very tolerable company of an evening. Murch and he frequently hunted together, selling the venison at the neighboring logging-camps. And on the evening preceding the first day of our hunt, February 3, Lewey had come down to the head from his wigwam, or winter camp, on the Cusabexis. One versed in woodcraft might well wonder how two experienced hunters should happen to take a couple of boys with them on a moose hunt! Well, I suspect that Larks used undue—possibly pecuniary—influence with them. Such things are sometimes done.

Day broke clear and frosty. We were off by sunrise—on snow-shoes. The snow was crisp. And as the early sun-rays fell in through the bare tree-tops the whole air resounded with the sharp snapping of the frozen wood, relaxed by the warmth. An hour's walk took us across the lowlands between the supply-depot and the river (the West Branch of the Penobscot), which enters the lake at some distance above. Crossing the river on the ice a ittle below Pine Stream Falls,—so near that wecould hear the plunging waters,—we began to ascend the ridgy slopes which lead up among the highlands that, too, when there is no perceptible breeze. The highlands in Township No. V. in Range XIV.

"Now, boys," said Ben, stopping to tighten the strings of his snow-shoes, "the less ye say and the fewer twigs ye snap the better; for, unless I 'm much mistaken," pointing to the cropped branches of a yellow birch, "we shall come upon a yard within a couple of hours. So keep whist. Mind the going. Don't tread on the dry brush. You youngsters may as well keep a few rods behind. And whenever I raise my hand—so—stop, both of you, stock-still,—and don't move till I tell ye."

Thus instructed we moved cautiously on again.

"What does the old fellow mean by a 'yard ?'" whispered Larks, as we picked our way along behind. And as some others may perchance need a word in explanation, we will try to give it.

Suppose, as is often the case, that late in the fall, just as the snows are coming, a herd of moose—a dozen say, though generally not more than three or four—are browsing on the bank of a river or along the shore of a pond or lake. A snow-storm comes on, and there falls a foot, perhaps. Naturally enough, the moose don't go over as much ground next day after their browse as if the ground were bare. And very likely, too, since it is natural for all creatures to follow beaten paths,—nor are human beings exceptions,—very likely, I say, that nightfall will find them retracing their steps to the place whence they started in the morning. And thus they will remain for several days, not going over more than a mile or two of ground, unless disturbed by wolves or men. Then comes another storm, with another foot of snow. This makes walking about still more laborious. And the moose, consulting their ease, go about still less. So they keep on, narrowing their feeding-ground after every storm, till, when the snow has become four and five or six feet deep, it is nothing unusual to find a herd of from three to a dozen snowed into a yard of from five to thirty acres, with deep beaten paths running through it in every direction, the twigs cropped and bark gnawed from all the trees.

I believe this the more satisfactory explanation of a moose-yard, though many so-called naturalists will tell you that the moose select their yard before the snows come,—that they are in this matter "governed by instinct." All of which you may safely believe the moment they satisfactorily define that word, instinct.

Now, if a hunter can steal up unobserved, or rather unheard, within rifle-shot of one of these yards, why, he stands a good chance of securing one of the herd, at least. But the difficulty is to approach unperceived. For there is no keener-eared animal under the sun than a moose. They will often hear or smell a man half a mile, and that, too, when there is no perceptible breeze. 1 only chance of surprising a yard is when there s stiff breeze from it and then it is a pretty ticklish job, and but rarely done.

A little farther on we saw where a cluster of hazel-bushes had been bitten off; and soon a shrubby pine with all its lower branches stripped of their tassels. These were indications of a yard not many miles off. The moose had been here; but later snows had covered the track

We walked on with as little noise as possible. It was rather blind work, though; for the thick mixed growth made it impossible to see more than six or eight rods ahead. Presently we came to a clump of moose-wood shrubs browsed off as before, with a faint trail under the more recent snows leading away to the left. Along this Lewey and Ben picked their way softly, followed at some distance by Larks and myself.

We had gained the summit of a high ridge, and were now descending into the valley beyond. The shrubs along the trail had nearly all been cropped—all save the spruce; moose never touch spruce boughs. We followed this trail for half a mile, perhaps, when Lewey, who was considerably in advance, suddenly stopped,—we saw him making signs and whispering to Ben, and stole gently up to them. Right in front were the fresh tracks of a moose,—huge hoof-prints stamped deep into the snow.

"'St, boys!" whispered Ben. "We're close upon 'em! Stay here; don't stir!"

Lewey and he worked slowly forward, drawing their heavy snow shoes carefully after them. Watching breathlessly, we saw Lewey pause and caustiously raise the hammer of his rifle. It clicked faintly, despite his care. Instantly there was heard a hoarse snort, accompanied by a great crashing among the brush.

"There they go!" Shouted Ben. Lewey had sprung forward like a cat,—too late to get a shot, however. The moose were gone. We could hear them tearing along down the valley, and on coming to the yard—some twenty rods farther on—found it empty.

"No help for it now," muttered Ben, gazing a little grimly at the gnawed saplings along the now deserted paths. "Nothing to do but chase them down. Think you can stand a three days' tramp, Larks?"

"Very long hunt," remarked Lewey.

But Larks had great faith in his legs.

Three distinct tracks on the farther side of the yard showed us where the moose had left it; and tightening our straps, we shouldered our guns and started in pursuit.