Hunting 97 



wolf, or the hound in pursuit of a deer, I shoot with 

 pleasure. And yet no one can see even a fangy, 

 cruel wolf in a trap without pitying him. He puts 

 his head down, and if he have a loose paw, covers 

 his eyes with it, and is silent. 



The sense of blood-guiltiness in killing those 

 harmless and beautiful creatures, and of wrong in 

 taking advantage of the very human instincts of the 

 bears, grew upon me so that I could no longer 

 endure it. My last deer-hunt was in the middle of 

 the 90's. The cook notified me that the meat was 

 out. I took my rifle and went to the woods for a 

 supply, started a deer which ran behind a large pine 

 and put his head out to watch me. I made the 

 shot, a long one, missed, and went on. On the 

 summit of the next hill, pausing to look, I was 

 astonished to see a splendid buck not over thirty 

 yards distant, standing and gazing right at me. I 

 had already stopped, but was carrying my rifle by 

 the middle in my right hand. I was in black, from 

 hat to moccasins, and stood motionless. How was 

 I to bring my gun to bear? On the least movement 

 on my part, he would have been out of sight in the 

 dense thicket at a single bound. I began to lift 

 the gun so slowly as to show no motion, and thus 

 very gradually brought it up, and then with a quick 

 movement fired. 



He was helplessly wounded, not killed. As I 

 advanced upon him, he fixed his large, lustrous, 

 frightened eyes upon me, and I ended his life with 



