OLLEN AND OTHER HUNTING 275 



Cushioned on a soft bed of rotting leaves and decay- 

 ing vegetation, I came across a late — or early, which- 

 ever way you like to take it — red-deer calf aged not 

 more than two days, drowsing away the hours. The 

 wide-eyed little creature made no attempt to run away 

 from me, as it assuredly would have done were it even 

 twelve hours older, and licked my hand as I stroked its 

 satin coat. Though so youthful I think he understood 

 the art of mimicry, or his mother understood it for him. 

 Placed as he was, the colours blended so perfectly, so 

 harmoniously with the surroundings that the fawn 

 was safe from human detection. Any chance passer-by 

 would take the little one for an ant heap scratched up 

 by the pheasants, or a broken tree stump. I should 

 never have found him but by accident. 



When I essayed to leave my new friend would none 

 of it. He untucked his long legs gravely, with the deep- 

 set purpose of accompanying me. It was a long time 

 ere I persuaded him to stay where he was until his dam 

 returned from pasture. 



Keebeet was asleep with the great head of my ollen 

 impaled on a tree trunk beside him. The place looked 

 like a shambles. This part of big-game hunting is 

 woeful ! 



Presently he lifted the trophy shoulder high, a big 

 load, and then, tiring, he set the deer's horns upon his 

 head, like a branch of victory. This side of big-game 

 hunting is glorious ! 



We notched the trees as we passed, so that anyone 

 who cared for it might go out from the castle and bring 

 in the rest of the meat. 



