OLLEN AND OTHER HUNTING 273 



I jerked my arm unduly, and in a couple of jumps 

 the mink gained safety. That is his quick way. He it 

 the Kitchener of all the furry world for strategy. 



The mandate note of quail fluted in rhythmic insis- 

 tence — Whit-tu-whit ! Whit-tu-whit ! and all about 

 me the small sweet sounds of the forest people never 

 stilled. The chirr and chirp and shrilling of cicadse 

 and crickets, the soft rustle of some sinuous creature 

 making a way through the underbrush, the snort of a 

 disturbed boar, the whistle of the woodpeckers, and 

 the lyric rapture of many birds all voiced for me the 

 mysterious tongue of the wilderness, the siren call of 

 the wild. 



Strange that Darwin, greatest of all observers, was 

 so little affected by the singing of birds. He has so 

 few things to say about the marvel, hardly anything to 

 tell us, and we would know so much. 



The roar of a near-by stag — a grand primeval sound 

 — made me start to my feet. I could hear him so 

 plainly, almost he might be lunching with me. I 

 thought I should be able to locate him easily, and — 

 there's the rub ! Few creatures are so difficult to place 

 as this oUen of the Caucasus, and when you think you 

 know exactly where he is the creature's half across 

 the river. The roaring is so deceptive, and so very 

 much depends on whether the call was given in your 

 direction or with head facing towards a strictly 

 opposite corner of the forest. The echoes, too, are all 

 his Familiars, and aid and abet escape. 



The wind was in my favour, and I intended swooping 

 down in approved style, for it is always quite hopeless 



