386 THE DEER OF AMERICA. 



sound the course selected by the deer. Rifles are cocked, not a 

 whisper is breathed, not a twig is broken, not a leaf is stirred. 

 Every wandering thought is summoned back and absorbed in the 

 excitement of the moment. The course of the hounds may be 

 traced by their voices, each listener calculating the chances of 

 their arriving at his stand. 



This is the moment when the inexperienced hunter is liable to 

 make his greatest mistake. He forgets that the deer is not with 

 the dogs, but may be a mile or more ahead of them. He listens 

 to the dogs, and his ej^es are in the direction whence the sound 

 comes. If they seem to approach him, he forgets that the game 

 may be already upon him. When he least expects it, there is a 

 rushing noise, a crackling of the brush, and the deer emerges 

 from the thicket, and with an elastic bound is already at the ford, 

 and with a few lofty leaps is across the creek, and like a flash 

 disappears in the dark covert beyond before the startled watcher, 

 quaking from head to foot with the hiick-fever., could more than 

 bring his gun to his face and fire a random shot, when all is still 

 again, save the tumultuous beating of his own heart. 



Less fortunate is the deer if he makes the runway occupied by 

 the experienced sportsman. Only thinking of the danger behind 

 him, and confident of his powers to far outstrip the baying 

 pack, he bounds through the forest, proudly throwing aloft his 

 great branching antlers, as if in derision ; bidding defiance to his 

 pursuers, nor dreaming of danger before, he fearlessly rushes to 

 the little opening on the bank of the stream, where he is accus- 

 tomed to make the crossing, whether at his leisure or when pur- 

 sued. This is just what the watcher is hoping and expecting. 

 While he hears the distant baying of the pack, he is intently 

 listening for the least noise in the near forest which could indi- 

 cate the approach of the game. And now he hears the breaking 

 of a dry limb, or the heavy tramp among the rustling leaves. If 

 his pulse quickens a little, as it surely will, still no tremor or 

 agitation is felt, but only tension and firmness are established in 

 every nerve and in every muscle. The trusty rifle is quickly 

 brought to the cheek, and the next instant, with a lofty bound, 

 the magnificent but graceful form of the stately stag bursts from 

 the border of the covert, his face in a horizontal line, his antlers 

 thrown back upon his shoulders, so that every branch and vine 

 must easily glance from the backward-pointing tines, his scut 

 erect, and his bright eye glistening in the excitement of the 

 moment, when instantly and while he is yet in mid-air, a sharp 



