KOE-SHOOTING IN THE BALKANS 85 



stone rolling, and the sound guides my eyes to the 

 deer. The hillside is so steep that it moderates 

 even his pace, and I can scan him (for it is a 

 buck) carefully. His horns are all right, and of 

 fair size. 



On the ridge he pauses one fatal moment to look 

 back. Bang ! The hills re-echo the report, and the 

 buck lies kicking. I hurry towards him as soon as 

 I have reloaded. Poor fellow ! but euthanasia soon 

 follows. As my skean-dhu finds the fatal spot be- 

 tween skull and vertebra, the soft eyes glaze at 

 once. 



The other day I was reading an article by Mr 

 Andrew Lang, in which he says that as the sports- 

 man grows older " he ceases to be sanguinary." If 

 this is true I never can have been young, for, with 

 the exception of actually noxious and dangerous 

 animals, I think I never killed one without some 

 slight feeling of regret. A cock -pheasant, for in- 

 stance. There he lies, a crumpled mass of feathers, 

 that a minute ago was a beautiful and harmless 

 creature, enjoying his simple life. What right had I 

 to take it ? What — " Mark," and the gun is at the 

 shoulder again, for the sympathy, alas ! only comes 

 after the shot. A hunted fox again. Well, there I 

 think I can honestly say I never tallied one in my 

 life when another man was carrying the horn. Poor 

 beast, he has given me a capital twenty, thirty, or 

 forty minutes ; let those whose business it is view 

 him for themselves, if they can't kill him without. If 

 I were hunting hounds my feelings for them would 

 prevent my sparing him, but that is quite another 

 thing. So he slinks off in peace ; but I fear I should 

 be the first to cry '* Beautiful ! " if the eager bitches 



