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Hunting 



A PARTY of us, including ladies, the girls and 

 boys, and Georgie, our young Indian, some 

 walking, some in the wagon, made an ex- 

 cursion one afternoon to Four Mile Lake, a sheet of 

 water which lies among high hills. We descended to 

 it, and were sitting under the trees on its margin 

 when a finely antlered deer was seen feeding along 

 the shore and coming toward us. The conversation 

 was dropped to whispers as the beautiful creature 

 came on. My attention was attracted to Georgie. 

 I never saw a richer and clearer complexion than 

 his — a light bronze, better to my eye than brunette. 

 He is straight as an arrow, fine eyes, regular feat- 

 ures, a model for a Phidias. Georgie was in a 

 quiver of excitement, his eyes glistening, and he 

 shouting in whispers: "Oh, isn't he a beauty! Oh, 

 what a pretty shot! Just look at him! Just see 

 him! Oh! oh!" But Georgie was familiar with 

 deer, saw them every day, had been raised chiefly 

 on venison, and had successfully hunted all kinds 

 of game, so the deer was no novelty to him, and yet 

 he "went wild" at the sight of this one. It was 

 the hunting instinct awakened by the sight of the 

 game. In the white man it is modified, though never 



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