moose he saw a solitary white man, clad in a green shirt, buckskin trousers, and moccasins, and carrying a long rifle. It is hard to tell whether the newcomer saw the Indian or the moose first. In any event he raised his firearm and took aim at the unsuspecting animal, which kept on browsing. When Young Jacob saw the white man's intentions, he stepped forward, saying politely, for all Indians, past and present, have been noted for their courtesy, "Brother, don't kill that moose. The woods are full of deer, if you are hungry, and the moose is a pet of mine." But the white man only sneered, and pulling the trigger, the ball sped with unerring aim, lodging in the big Original's heart. With an awful bellow of pain, mingled with surprise, the animal turned and charged on his white destroyer. The hunter, who reloaded his gun deftly, let the moose get within a few feet of him, when he fired again, but the big brute had been already mortally wounded, and fell without the aid of the second shot. With a sound like a falling pine the Original crashed to the earth, lying dead among the ferns and hazel bushes, his wide-spreading palmated antlers stretching out on either side like the knives of a reaper. Planting one foot on the dead animal's swarthy proboscis, the white man struck a silly attitude. Young Jacob, supposed savage, yet in reality a model of gentility and toleration, looked at him a moment in disgust. Then calmly he asked him what he intended to do with the mammoth carcass in the middle of summer. The white man stroked his long beard a moment and said, with a great show of _insouciance_, "Why, of course, leave it. What else could I do with it?" That was too much for the fair-minded Indian. The white man had killed a harmless moose for "sport" and now was going to leave it to rot and feed the ravens. He could contain himself no longer, and cursed the paleface roundly for his folly. "Why," he shouted, "that moose was around my camp for three days and nights, happy and doing no harm, and I thought no more of shooting him than I would the little singing birds in the trees above. We Indians only kill when we have to; we have sense." The white man's temper was equally aroused, and he swore at the Indian in turn. "You say you Indians only kill when you have to. You are damn fools. We white men kill when we want to, and intend to kill everything before we get through." With that he raised his rifle threateningly. But Young Jacob suspecting such a motive, and forgetting that the white man had not reloaded his weapon, pulled his own trigger first, and the paleface fell to the earth, a bullet through his lungs. When the redman saw what he had done he showed no remorse, until on picking up the white hunter's rifle he found it empty. Then he threw down his own gun and went to the dying man's side. Stooping down he said to him: "White man, I cannot call you _brother_ now. I am sorry for what I have done. I did not remember that your gun was empty."