XX. 



SHOOTING A DEER MODERN SENTIMENTALISTS THE IN^ 



FLUENCE OF NATURE. 



Forked Lake, Aug. 



After we had pitched (not our tent, but) our 

 shanty, we began to cast about for supper. I told 

 Mitchell I could not think of eating a piece of salt 

 pork, and we must get some trout. So rigging our 

 lines upon poles we cut on the shores of the lake, and 

 taking our rifles with us, we jumped into our bark 

 canoe, and pushed for some rapids in the Raquette 

 River, where it entered Forked Lake. As we were 

 paddling carefully along the edge of a marsh that put 

 out from the main land, Mitchell, who was at the 

 stern, suddenly exclaimed, '' Hist ! — I see the head of 

 deer coming down to feed." I sometimes thought he 

 could smell a deer, for he would often say he saw one 



