CHAPTER X 



THE PHANTOM STAG 



A CERTAIN amount of superstition is bred 

 in the bone of almost every good sports- 

 man. And every true huntsman loves 

 occasionally to tell the story of some weird 

 and incomprehensible experience. Even if I 

 have never met the " Wild Huntsman " in the 

 woods or the " Flying Dutchman " on the sea, 

 I, too, have my amazing hunting story. It's 

 a story about a stag. 



In the middle of the lovely Miitzelburg 

 forest, an ideal spot for red deer, lies hidden 

 a track of grass land which turns and twists 

 in happy abandon towards the wood. I know 

 every branch and tree in this neighbourhood. 

 Many a fine stag has breathed his last on these 

 beautiful meadows. 



The remarkable thing is that every year, 

 on the very last day of the rutting season, 



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