She had a little sailor doll, A boy doll dressed in blue, A doll that rode a bicycle, A colored dolly, too. But one and all she passed them by, And cried with glad surprise: "Oh, look, I've got a _real_ doll!" 'Twas the doll that shuts its eyes. STRADDLED ON A MAD MOOSE. BY HUBERT EARL. We sat around the big open brick fireplace in the main cabin of the camp, watching the birch logs as the flames greedily licked them and threw forth a strong ruddy light upon our faces. What with the guides and a few old veterans we made quite a party. Hunting stories had been the topic of the evening's conversation, and I, who had seldom hunted (this being, in fact, my first trip into the region), had listened to these stories very much interested. The camp was situated on an island in one of the numerous lakes found along the borders of northern Maine. It consisted of a few log cabins, with a large one in the centre, where we were at the moment congregated. The night air was very cold, and Billy, our host, had predicted a frost before morning. Billy was practically born in the woods, and knew every sign that could be learned. It was a pleasure to watch his quiet face as he pulled away on a big black cigar, gazing the while reflectively at the blazing logs. While I watched him my eyes drifted now and then around the walls of the cabin. Stacked in the corners were rifles and shot-guns of all descriptions, and strung along the log sides, upon wooden pins, rested fly-rods innumerable, their polished reels catching and reflecting the flicker of the fire. Off in the shadowy corner a rude stairway, with moose-legs for rails, went climbing up into the loft overhead, and in the deepest part of the shadow I made out the head of a magnificent bull moose with immense spreading antlers. As I looked at it, it seemed to appear exceedingly savage, and the glass eyes had been so skilfully placed that in the flickering light they stared in the most baleful manner. Involuntarily I drew my chair closer to Billy's, and patiently watched his cigar dwindle down, ever and anon glancing at the ferocious-looking head behind me. In a short time the conversation lulled, and I ventured to ask Billy to tell the story connected with the shooting of the moose behind us. "It is sure to be interesting," I said, "for he looks as if he died fighting hard." Billy glanced at me in a protesting sort of way, but the chorus of requests for the story was too much for him. "Well, boys," he said, "just give me a moment till I load my pipe, and I'll tell it to you; and you can judge for yourselves whether it is interesting or not.