328 Sporting Sketches 



of the trees. The one large pool, all that is left of 

 the creek, gleams in the light which tells that a fine 

 day for sport has just begun. The woods are 

 strangely quiet. A mysterious hush prevails over 

 all things, and silent-footed shadows creep from tree 

 to tree. Now and then a whisper of bird-voices 

 tinkles far away, only to quickly die and render the 

 solemn stillness the more impressive. We wait- 

 and wait. Shafts of golden light flash through loop- 

 holes in the dome of foliage and kindle mimic fires 

 amid the fallen leaves. We breathe the sweet 

 woody airs, and feel within us something of the 

 holy calm which seems to have brought the entire 

 scene under its soothing spell. 



Spat! We involuntarily start, for the sound 

 seems to rip the stillness like a pistol-shot. Was it 

 a large drop of water falling upon a broad leaf, or 

 was it ? 



Spat spat ! This time followed by a soft 

 rustling of leaves in that hickory fifty feet away. 

 The spell is broken; the witchery of woodlands 

 loses its subtle charm, for the small sounds tell that 

 the game is afoot. A distant barking elicits a 

 louder, nearer reply, and soon sounds of busy life 

 are heard from every side. A fragment of nutshell 

 falls pattering through the leaves and strikes the 

 ground in plain view, and small branches almost 

 overhead rustle and sway. Presently the little rifle 

 is pointed upward, then a sharp report, a momentary 

 agitation among the branches, a succession of crashes, 

 a heavy thump upon the ground and there he 

 lies. He is a fat fellow, but a, red streak in his 

 glossy fur shows where the ball passed through his 



