188 THE ROE-DEER 



days during which I strenuously endeavoured to 

 get the one particular buck I coveted, I only saw 

 one other head which approached his in excellence. 

 I could have shot two or three smaller beasts, 

 carrying six points, it is true, but no better than an 

 ordinary Scottish head. I did not fire, because I 

 was afraid of frightening the big buck, whom I 

 knew would not desert the ground unless he were 

 thoroughly alarmed. I had two stalks after him, 

 but never got a shot. The other good buck had 

 already taken the alarm, though he had not seen 

 us. He was slowly making off down the hill, when 

 he suddenly stopped, and with cocked ears stared 

 into the wood in front of him. Almost imme- 

 diately another buck emerged and began walking 

 towards him. He passed my buck, when the latter 

 suddenly whipped round and charged up the hill 

 after him. Another ten yards and I should have 

 had a splendid chance, but alas ! it was not to be. 

 They both dashed into the wood, and I never saw 

 either of them again. 



The little deer has always been a great favourite 

 of mine. Small as he is, he was my first big game, 

 and I love him for that, if for no other reason. It 

 was a dark deed, the slaughter of that unfortunate 

 yearling, and I have often regretted it. Still, a 

 schoolboy of sixteen, armed with a gun, and 

 suddenly confronted by a real live roe — big or 

 small — looking to his excited imagination the 

 mucklest of muckle harts, cannot at so supreme 

 a moment be harshly judged for forgetting the 

 ethics of sport. That little head has hung in my 

 bedroom for years, and though I am not proud of 

 it, it has a special value in my eyes, for it marks my 



