few of them, indeed, like a dash of the adventurous in their lover; but
most of them are business-women, fighting their way out of vulgarity
into style, and romance is an interruption.

Kinneo was an old station of Iglesias's, in those days when he was
probing New England for the picturesque. When the steamer landed, he
acted as cicerone, and pointed out to me the main object of
interest thereabouts, the dinner-table. We dined with lumbermen and
moose-hunters, scufflingly.

The moose is the lion of these regions. Near Greenville, a gigantic pair
of moose-horns marks a fork in the road. Thenceforth moose-facts and
moose-legends become the staple of conversation. Moose-meat, combining
the flavor of beefsteak and the white of turtle, appears on the table.
Moose-horns with full explanations, so that the buyer can play the part
of hunter, are for sale. Tame mooselings are exhibited. Sportsmen at
Kinneo can choose a _matinée_ with the trout or a _soirée_ with the
moose.

The chief fact of a moose's person is that pair of strange excrescences,
his horns. Like fronds of tree-fern, like great corals or sea-fans,
these great palmated plates of bone lift themselves from his head,
grand, useless, clumsy. A pair of moose-horns overlooks me as I write;
they weigh twenty pounds, are nearly five feet in spread, on the right
horn are nine developed and two undeveloped antlers, the plates are
sixteen inches broad,--a doughty head-piece.

Every year the great, slow-witted animal must renew his head-gear. He
must lose the deformity, his pride, and cultivate another. In spring,
when the first anemone trembles to the vernal breeze, the moose nods