Only a little time have we been in the Peaceful Valley, when moose stories begin to circulate. The rumour goes that Mr. P., a camper, has seen a bull moose in the north meadow, and watched him feed for more than an hour. Louise, the dining-room girl, declares that she frequently sees a moose feeding in the “logan” when she rises about daybreak. (Will some etymologist settle the derivation of that word “logan”? About Moosehead it seems to be applied to a bay of any sort or condition. Is it a corruption of “lagoon”?) The Higher Critic kindly calls attention to the evident unreliability of these stories. We know the habits of the moose. It is a shy animal, and seldom comes out into the open. If it should venture out it most certainly would not approach a summer hotel. Granting that some demented specimen might visit a clearing in which is a hotel, it would do so only under the protection of darkness. The stories are evidently mythical. Only a few days later the Higher Critic receives a distinct jar when he is awakened at early dawn one morning by a tapping at his door and hears a low voice saying, “There’s a moose in the logan!” The shadows of night are not entirely gone, but it is light enough to see distinctly the dark object standing in the water and tearing at the lily-pads. A cow? Too large and too high at the shoulders. A horse? No horse ever had such ears or such a head. Although the H. C. has never before seen a moose outside of a zoological garden, one glance convinces him that his theory is seriously damaged. A few days later, as the guests are eating their midday meal, the small boy rushes into the dining-room and shouts, “Moose in the logan!” In an incredibly short space of time the boarders have exchanged the dining-room for the garden fence, and are looking down upon such a sight as even dwellers in the Peaceful Valley seldom see. In the middle of the logan, and not more than forty rods away, stands a cow moose with her calf by her side. The mother plunges her muzzle into the water in search of food, lifts her head and munches for a time, and then repeats the process. All the time the tail is switching at the flies, and the great ears are slowly moving back and forth. Neither mother nor child seems to pay any attention to the spectators, and both remain perfectly unconcerned until the small boy begins to whistle and shout. Then, without any signs of fear, they walk out of the water, trot slowly across the meadow and disappear in the woods. The H. C. sadly lays his theory away in the mausoleum where so many of its kindred rest.