THE LAND OF FOOTPRINTS 



fifty yards. There I raised my head behind a little 

 bush to look. Three does grazed nearest me, their 

 coats rough against the chill of early morning. Up 

 the slope were two more does and two funny, fuzzy 

 babies. An immature buck occupied the extreme 

 left with three young ladies. But the big buck, the 

 leader, the boss of the lot, I could not see anywhere. 

 Of course he must be about, and I craned my neck 

 cautiously here and there trying to make him out. 



Suddenly, with one accord, all turned and began 

 to trot rapidly away to the right, their heads high. 

 In the strange manner of animals, they had received 

 telepathic alarm, and had instantly obeyed. Then 

 beyond and far to the right I at last saw the beast 

 I had been looking for. The old villain had been 

 watching me all the time! 



The little herd in single file made their way rapidly 

 along the face of the rise. They were headed in the 

 direction of the stream. Now, I happened to know- 

 that at this point the stream-canon was bordered 

 by sheer cliffs. Therefore, the sing-sing must round 

 the hill, and not cross the stream. By running to 

 the top of the hill I might catch a glimpse of them 

 somewhere below. So I started on a jog trot, trying 

 to hit the golden mean of speed that would still leave 

 me breath to shoot. This was an affair of some 

 nicety in the tall grass. Just before I reached the 



