210 A SPORTSMAN'S EDEN, 



his jaws remain rigidly apart, the last mouthful 

 unswallowed, and somewhere far back in the 

 bushes I hear a movement. Very faint at first, 

 but suddenly Jocko grips my arm and points. 

 I can see nothing. Yes, now I can't. For 

 one moment I caught a glimpse of a brown form 

 on the jump. I think I had a glimpse of a 

 long white fur, and though I did snap at my 

 first white-tail buck, I don't consider it worth 

 while to go and look if there is blood on his 

 trail. I am conscious of having fired somewhere 

 in his direction, and that is about all. 



There are no birds, no life anywhere. What- 

 ever is in the forest (and you can't help feeling that 

 it is full of live beasts) is endowed with ghost- 

 like silence of tread, and the power of remain- 

 ing invisible. But now, as evening falls, Jocko 

 seems to have given up the moose, and is keenly 

 studying the exceptionally large heart like slot 

 of a white-tail buck. We are in a hollow, and 

 round us are low hills covered with hard-wood 

 and fallen timber. The edges are clearly defined 

 against the frosty sky, and what is that on the 

 very crest of one of them ? Surely it is a great 

 buck, though his back is straight and rigid as the 

 pine butts lying round him. As he has seen us 

 it is hopeless to try to get nearer ; Jocko shakes 

 his head as I raise my rifle, but I take no notice. 



