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-Suddenly the bus driverstops with a jolt,turns off his lights.A moose has come out ofthe impenetrable woodand stands there, looms, rather,in the middle of the road.It approaches; it sniffs atthe bus’s hot hood.Towering, antlerless,high as a church,homely as a house(or, safe as houses).A man’s voice assures us’Perfectly harmless. . . .’Some of the passengersexclaim in whispers,childishly, softly,’Sure are big creatures.”It’s awful plain.”Look! It’s a she!’Taking her time,she looks the bus over,grand, otherworldly.Why, why do we feel(we all feel) this sweetsensation of joy?’Curious creatures,’says our quiet driver,rolling his r’s.’Look at that, would you.’Then he shifts gears.For a moment longer,by craning backward,the moose can be seenon the moonlit macadam;then there’s a dimsmell of moose, an acridsmell of gasoline.

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