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In the nothern parts of our continent the deer live for months, sometimes, on hemlock leaves, and so impregnated does their flesh become with the pungent odor that it is entirely worthless for food. At times these poor animals suffer immensely from starvation, and this is particularly the case when the snow is so deep that the creatures can not dig down to the surface of the earth and obtain some sustenance from the roots of grasses and herbs. In the year 1835 a gentleman, traveling in the vicinity of Lake George, came into a hemlock forest which was full of different wild animals that had sought its protection against the unusual prevailing cold. Here, among other things, he discovered a deer yard," in which were huddled together nearly a hundred and fifty deer, who stood with their heads all turned out from the centre, to anticipate any outside attack. The deer had, by constant trampling, made an enclosure in the snow with walls over four feet high. Inside of this they had remained until nearly famished, many being so weak that they could not stand. Sixty of the most vigorous were taken out without their making any serious resistance, and placed in a large barn, where they soon recovered upon a diet of excellent hay. In the vicinity there were several small yards. So long had these creatures lived upon the aromatic leaves of the hemlock that their flesh was as pungent as the leaves themselves.

The favorite haunts of the deer are where they can find some matted thicket in which to hide, places they select with remarkable sagacity to secure seclusion. When their antlers are in velvet they then occasionally seek the sunny side of a hill, in the expressive language of the hunters, " to dry their horns."

The deer is a great bather, and a luxurious one. He chooses a shallow place with a hard bottom, and first scraping away any pebbles or other rough projections that may be distributed under his feet, he lies down with the air of a creature that is about to be comfortable and knows how to enjoy it. After resting awhile, that the water may quietly soak through his thick coating of hair and cool his sensitive skin, he rolls from side to side, occasionally rising partially out of the water and shaking himself as will a Newfoundland dog. These traits suggest habits common to the deer, north and south; but in the swamps of Louisiana and the neighboring States the deer, at night-fall, seek the protection of the water against the attack of the poisonous mosquito, and will for hours remain entirely buried under the surface, with nothing visible but his sharp nostril, over which is continually buzzing a cloud of rapacious insects, which,

the moment they attempt their bloody work, are disappointed by the sinking of the nostril under the water. At this game of attack and defense will deer and mosquito indulge all night.

The scent of the species is very powerful, while the sight, on the contrary, is quite imperfect. A chamois, when dashing down the mountains, will suddenly stop, as if struck by a thunder-bolt, some yards from the spot where recent human foot-prints are visible in the snow, and turning, scared, away, will rush in an opposite direction. The very taint in the air is recognized long after the hunter is passed. The common deer will often approach within a few yards of a human being without perceiving him; but directly a change of position brings the scent upon the wind the animal will be off like a shot. In localities where they are not much hunted they do not fly at the approach of man, but, like all game, crouch in the long grass or under-wood, endeavoring to conceal themselves, lying with their heads erect, their ears pressed flat on their necks, their eyes keenly watching the movements of the intruder, ready, on the instant, to spring to their feet. The Indians sometimes disguise themselves in the entire skin of the deer, imitating, at the same time, its cries and gait, and in this way often destroy many, provided the keen scent of the animal, which can not be deceived, does not take the alarm.

Of all animals known the deer is the most easily domesticated—a fact which seems exceedingly strange when we take its natural timidity and wildness into consideration. Persons who can imitate the bleat of the fawn often bring the doe within gunshot, though it is certainly a cruel thing to shoot the poor creature whose maternal affections have thus overcome its fear. It is not an extraordinary thing for the hunter to be obliged to push the doe off with the muzzle of his gun when he has accidentally captured its young. Upon seizing a fawn it will, for a few moments, struggle and bleat terribly; but when you set it down its contact with humanity seems to have changed its nature, for, like an affectionate spaniel, it will follow you home, and never requires farther domestication.

When the doe goes out to feed she hides her fawn away, with maternal solicitude and consummate judgment. She will, by some power known to herself, cause the young one to lie down in the thicket, and there remain until she returns. Nature has made these little creatures not only very strong and active, but has kindly mottled up its skin so that it is less distinguishable among surrounding natural objects than it would otherwise be. When very young they are red, with white spots on their sides like little stars; these spots disap

pear when they advance toward maturity, and entirely disappear when they assume their blue coat in the autumnal season.

A gentleman of our acquaintance was on a hunt when a doe was shot (a most cruel murder!), and, perceiving that it was with fawn, he stooped down, and, with his knife, brought the tiny thing into the world. The little animal, thus "untimely ripped" from the body of its dead mother, ultimately gained its feet, and, to the surprise of all who witnessed it, followed the party home. We afterward saw the animal in the full pride of a majestic head of horns.

It is not uncommon, in riding among the plantations of the South, to see a deer bound over the high Virginia fences into the road, stop and gaze upon your intrusive presence, and then frisking its tail, gambol along in sight, and suddenly disappear behind some Cherokee hedge. You know this to be a domesticated deer, not only from its sociability, but also from the little bell it wears upon its neck to protect it from the weapon of the hunter, who might otherwise be deceived, when met with in remote parts of the plantation where it was domiciliated. These domesticated deer shed a beauty over the lawn, and afford infinite amusement when the hound puppies about the yard open at full cry and "give it a brush." The old dogs take no notice of these household, pets, but seem to know them as well as any other prominent member of the family.

Mrs. Kenzie, in her "Early Day of the Northwest," relates that, as a token of gratitude from an Indian woman for some trivial favor bestowed, she received a fawn, which pleased her much by its soft blue eyes and dappled coat, and having often heard of the simile, "as wild as a fawn," she was greatly surprised to witness how soon it became tamed. Wherever the lady went "Fan" was sure to follow, showing all the familiarity and affection of a spaniel. On one occasion the pet made her way to a shelf of the dresser, endeavoring apparently to find a comfortable place to lie down among the plates and dishes. Upon examination it became evident that it was the protecting projection of the shelf the animal was after, as it always sought the shade of a chair or something else approaching an "umbrageous bower." The hint, or rather the instinctive feeling of the animal, being understood, at the usual hour of the morning when the gentle creature took her nap, a large green parasol was opened and set on the matting in the corner of the room. Fan was then called, when she would come and instantly nestle under the "genial shade," and fall asleep.

The American elk, or moose as it is universally called here, ex

ceeds all other deer in size and strength. It attains, when at full growth, a height of from seventeen to eighteen hands at the shoulder, and weighs twelve hundred pounds. The graceful form, however, which so eminently distinguishes the rest of his congeners has been denied the moose. His shape is ungainly and square-looking,

his coat is hanging and coarse, his mane stiff and his antlers gigantic, and he has altogether an extremely antique and antediluvian appearance.

The coat of the moose is composed of long stiff bristles of a light ash color near the roots, and is of a dark russet-brown color, which in the bull, in winter, changes to a glossy black. From behind the ears down the short neck and part of the back extends a thick harsh mane, nearly a foot in length. The hair covering the belly and the inside of the legs is of a sandy color. One of the most curious features which distinguish the moose is a hanging sort of pouch, the "bell" as it is termed, pendent from the spot where the junction of the head and neck occurs. This "bell" is covered with long black hair, giving it the appearance of a misplaced beard.

The antlers of the bull moose often measure four feet from tip to tip, and weigh sometimes as much as sixty pounds. They are massive and palmated, and fringed with short spikes or tines. The lowest tine extends forward over the forehead and supplies the place of

the brow antler. In April their horns begin to make their appearance, by September they have attained their full growth, and toward the end of January they are shed, and the head of the bull moose is as barren of decoration as that of his mate. Except however at the pairing season these formidable horns are never used offensively; even when pursued and wounded the moose uses his horns against the hunter in so awkward a manner that it is not a very difficult matter to avoid them. But in the "calling" season, when his ponderous frame trembles with jealous rage, the bloodiest battles are fought among themselves; indeed, hunters having killed a moose have found its flesh literally worthless from the tremendous gashes it has received in the course of its love quarrels. It is said the Indians when "calling," which is effected by imitating the plaintive of the female upon a trumpet of birch-bark (hereafter more fully described), and not succeeding in luring the suspicious animal within range of their missiles, change their tactics, and, by imitating the note of the bull moose, induce him to forget his natural wariness, and come headlong on to see the daring moose that presumes to come courting in his district.

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The food of the moose consists during the summer months of the leaves and tender branches of such shrubs as abound in his native forests of Eastern North America. In the winter season he subsists on the tops of young shoots, pulling them into his mouth by his prehensile upper lip (or mouffle), and biting them off. When, however, the moose is hard pressed by hunger he is not so dainty, and will pick a meal from the first green bough he meets-except it be the spruce; that he never eats. Unless the grass is very tall, or growing on a convenient bank, the moose will seldom attempt to crop it, his neck being too short to admit of his performing the operation of grazing with any thing like comfort; he can graze only by straddling his legs and stooping awkwardly, which may be taken as certain evidence that green shoots and tender buds, and not grasses, are his proper food.

As soon as the winter snow begins to fall, the moose, discontinuing their wandering habits, herd together, and form what is termed a moose yard," that is, they select a great patch of forest, fruitful in brush-wood of a deciduous nature, and diligently tread down the snow in a circle round about it. By and by there is quite an embankment of snow encircling the yard, securing them from the attacks of wild beasts, for even the gaunt wolf will pause at the icy barrier, nor dare to leap in among the array of mighty horns ready to receive him. But, alas! the cunningly-formed barricade is bane