Chapter I: Preface

"This is the forest primeval." "It is my home." So spoke the moose. Suffice it is to say, that a prize trophy over one's fireplace is an object to be admired by one and all. It brings you back to a last hunting trip, and well do you remember, as you gaze thereon, what a chase it had led you in life, through bog and alder swamp, until at last an opportunity presented itself whereby the deadly missile from your rifle sends him to his death. As the blue rings of smoke from your brier pipe float up and away, you are carried in thought to the North Woods wherein he roamed. There he lived, a monarch of all he surveyed. The excitement of the chase, while it is on, knows no bounds, but at the death it subsides, and you return to civilization to recall the event only when the time arrives that another pilgrimage to the happy hunting grounds is in order. On the other hand, you find him as a subject for your camera. An excellent one, too. Exiled in his domain for a few weeks and a wealth of enjoyment is yours, as, during the long winter evenings, you may open your album and see him before you as he was in life. The smoke from the same pipe will float up and away, and you can for a moment realize what a happy pastime you have enjoyed while a guest of Dame Nature in the Haunts of the Moose.

TO HIS LORDSHIP.

"Deep in the silent forest, where oft I've chanced to roam,
The monarch moose inhabits, it is his woodland home;
By silent lake at morning, by logan, calm at night,
Majestic stands his lordship, stands motionless in sight.
The north wind to him is music, the tall pines are his friends,
The rivers madly rushing, o'er the rocks and round the bends,
Seems to him a heavenly blessing, seems to him the work above
Of a kind and thoughtful Father, and His beings He doth love."

(West Branch Waters.)

Photographed from Life.]