... retired to rest feeling all was well so far. During the night the stock stampeded and ran in close to the camp fire. A strange, threatening voice was heard in the dense forest nearby, a noise I had never heard before. A loud roaring was repeated. Applegate gathered his belt and carbine and I the big rifle, and while the others quieted the stock we moved out in the direction from which the sound came. It receded as we advanced, and shortly, with a continued crashing the animal retreated out of hearing into the timber. We soon came upon its trail and I sent back for a lantern. It was an old bull moose. It had pawed up quite a space and barked a couple of young trees with its horns thus producing the crashing sound we had first noticed. In accounts of moose hunting, read previously, I had never seen it stated that a moose gave any call whatever. These in the Park have voices, unquestionably, and use them with the utmost freedom. Toward morning we were again roused by a flock of swans circling over us with their wild and splendid notes, harmonized to a glorious symphony. In the morning I shot and wounded a large wolverine but did not stop him, and Starr, while prowling along the river bank below camp, shot a goose and found a small plank canoe in which he proceeded to paddle out into the lake. Doane’s description of the moonlight night which followed is a classic example of his ability to portray, in words, a picture of the wilderness he loved so well.