“Joe exclaimed from the stream that he had killed a moose. He had found the cow moose lying dead, but quite warm, in the middle of the stream, which was so shallow that it rested on the bottom, with hardly a third of its body above water. We had moose meat fried for supper. It tasted like tender beef, with perhaps more flavor; sometimes like veal.”
“It is true, I came as near to being a hunter and miss it, as possible myself; and as it is, I think that I could spend a year in the woods fishing and hunting just enough to sustain myself, with satisfaction.”
“But this hunting of the moose merely for the satisfaction of killing him—not even for the sake of his hide, without making any extraordinary exertion or running any risk yourself, is too much like going out by night to some woodside pasture and shooting your neighbor's horses.”
—Henry David Thoreau, “1853 Chesuncook”, The Maine Woods