THE WHITETAIL DEER 211 



of sombre woodland themselves. The heart-shaped foot- 

 prints which showed where the deer had come down to 

 drink and feed on the marshy edges of the water made 

 my veins thrill; and the nights around the flickering 

 camp-fire seemed filled with romance. 



My first experiment in jacking was a failure. The 

 jack, a bark lantern, was placed upon a stick in the bow 

 of the boat, and I sat in a cramped huddle behind it, while 

 Mose Sawyer plied the paddle with noiseless strength 

 and skill in the stern. I proved unable to respond even 

 to the very small demand made upon me, for when we 

 actually did come upon a deer I failed to see it until 

 it ran, when I missed it; and on the way back capped my 

 misfortune by shooting a large owl which perched on a 

 log projecting into the water, looking at the lantern with 

 two glaring eyes. 



All next day I was miserably conscious of the smoth- 

 ered disfavor of my associates, and when night fell was 

 told I would have another chance to redeem myself. 

 This time we started across a carry, the guide carrying 

 the light boat, and launched it in a quiet little pond 

 about a mile off. Dusk was just turning into darkness 

 when we reached the edge of the little lake, which was 

 perhaps a mile long by three-quarters of a mile across, 

 with indented shores. We did not push off for half an 

 hour or so, until it was entirely dark; and then for a 

 couple of hours we saw no deer. Nevertheless, I thor- 

 oughly enjoyed the ghostly, mysterious, absolutely silent 

 night ride over the water. Not the faintest splash be- 

 trayed the work of the paddler. The boat glided stealth- 



