Hunting 95 



pack straps to my shoulders, tilt it free from the 

 ground, and walk away at ease. By this boat I 

 expected to test my declining strength in the old 

 age that was upon me. The last time I carried it, 

 it was borne as lightly as ever before; but my stal- 

 wart frame has been smitten down, and I shall carry 

 it no more. 



On that evening the bass were dull, and I took 

 a stroll into the forest, expecting a call from a 

 deer, and was not disappointed. Soon he came, 

 bounding like a rubber ball, the very embodiment 

 of suppleness and elasticity. He drank, made a 

 fling or two with his heels, and then plunged over- 

 head into the cool water. I laughed in sympathy 

 with his pleasure. After a while I began to whistle. 

 He threw up his head, flashing his ears this way and 

 that. Then I made a conch-shell of my hands and 

 blew a horn blast. He sprang ashore and sought 

 with eyes and ears for the source of the unwonted 

 sound. Then I showed myself and he answered! 

 Such a snort! He would bound a few rods and 

 then blow his alarm with an energy that was exceed- 

 ingly comical. He was determined that every deer 

 within a mile should be aware of the presence of a 

 natural enemy, but in this instance of a sympathiz- 

 ing friend, who would not hurt a hair of his red 

 hide. But he did not know that. 



It was nearly dark when I entered my boat to 

 cross to the island, and I saw what I took to be a 

 Newfoundland dog swimming for the same goal. 



