A Beardless Sport 



You are a young huntsman. 



—Titus Andeonicus. 



My younger son, who has been ray companion on 

 many of my hunting trips, is as much a lover of the 

 sport as I am ; and my efforts, as his tutor, to teach 

 his young idea how to shoot have been so successful 

 that he now is — or thinks he is — a better shot than his 

 father. However, he never boasts of his superiority, 

 and his modesty in this respect is so conspicuous that 

 I sometimes suspect that the buck fever, or its remem- 

 brance, lies at the bottom of it. This disease among 

 hunters — I don't think I am far out of the way in call- 

 ing it a " disease " — is, in one respect, very like the 

 measles among children ; every sport is liable to have 

 it once. In its mysterious attack it gets entire con- 

 trol of his nerves and at a most inopportune time. 

 He may have been standing for an hour or more, with 

 rifle cocked, waiting eagerly for the coming of a buck 

 that in " doubling his tracks " will be sure to approach 

 within easy reach of his shot. The buck does ap- 

 proach, bounding towards him with such rapidity that 

 the very sight upsets the nerves of the green hunter 

 and throws his anatomy out of gear. His eyes bulge, 

 his teeth chatter, his knees knock together, and even 



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