CHAP. TWENTY-ONE MY FIRST STAG 



WHERE is the man who does not remem- 

 ber and look back with feeHngs of energy 

 and deHght to the day, the hour, and the 

 wild scene, when he killed unaided his first 

 stag? Of course, I refer only to those who have the same 

 love of wild sport, and the same enjoyment in the romantic 

 solitude and scenery of the mountain and glen that I have 

 myself: shooting tame partridges and hares from the back 

 of a well-trained shooting-pony in a stubble-field, does not, 

 in my eyes, constitute a sportsman; though there is a cer- 

 tain interest attached even to this kind of pursuit, arising 

 more from observingthecleverness and instinct of thedogs 

 employed, than in killing the birds. But far different is the 

 enjoyment derived from stalking the red deer in his native 

 mountain, where every energy of the sportsman must be 

 called into active use, before he can command success. 



Well do I remember the mountain side where I shot my 

 first stag, and though many years have since passed by, I 

 could now, were I to pass through that wild and lovelyglen, 

 lay my hand on the very rock under which he fell. 



Though a good rifle-shot, indeed few were much better, 

 there seemed a charm against my killing a deer. On two 

 occasions, eagerness and fear of missing shook my hand 

 when I ought to have killed a fine stag. The second that I 

 ever shot at, came in my way in a very singular manner. 



I had been looking during the chief part of the day for 

 deer, and had, according to appointment, met an attendant 

 with my gun and pointers at a particular spring in the hills, 

 meaning to shoot my way home. The spring was situated 

 in the midst of a smallgreen spot, like an oasis in the desert, 

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