OLLEN AND OTHER HUNTING 267 



sinuating charms. Persistent autumnal rains ruffle in 

 time the surface of the subhmest philosophy. Such 

 pattering, sweeping showers, slanting on the keen 

 breath of the icy wind, girdling all the little wild 

 world with mists, Ariel-wise, " in twenty minutes." 



In the dense undergrowth of tangled willow skeins 

 and silver birch scrub lie giant pines fallen by the way, 

 reminders of winter's tempests, and with these unseen 

 tree stumps to trip you up and tightly laced thongs 

 grown again and overgrown to throw you down, the 

 best of good trackers finds the conditions difficult. 

 And yet — the ollen make nothing of the density. 

 Through the wanton maze they pass so easily. All 

 around us we heard their tense, vibrant notes of chal- 

 lenge, followed by a series of contemptuous grunts. 



New spoor should mean that deer are close at hand, 

 for the majestic oUcn moves slowly in an undisturbed 

 and little-hunted region. But — a big But ! It needs an 

 average good stalker and a trifle better to cross 

 slippery rocks, polished to ebony by the rushing, 

 swirling waters of all the centuries, wade through 

 swiftly - rushing tributary streamlets, and then on 

 through well-nigh impenetrable forests in the required 

 persistent silence. Silence ! That is the watchword, 

 the be-all and end-all. Perseverance, dogged perse- 

 verance next, and luck preponderating. Not much 

 finesse, no matching of your wits against those of an 

 alert superior, no burning heart-searchings for un- 

 wonted depths of courage, no fierce darting stabs of 

 excitement pricking up and down your spine. Silence, 

 and an unsuspicious stag within range. 



