THE PHANTOM STAG 95 



One evening in the third year Gossler arrived 

 breathless at the spot where we had arranged 

 to meet, with the news that he had just seen 

 our friend again in the meadow. 



We hurried to the spot. Sure enough the 

 stag stands roaring and pawing the ground 

 in a Httle clump of alders at the edge of the 

 meadow. 



No chance of getting nearer. The wind 

 is in the wrong direction and it is already 

 beginning to grow dark. 



At last the herd began to move in search of 

 fresh pastures. I stalked them, always hugging 

 the wood. At three hundred yards I try a 

 shot. 



The result does the famous rogue credit, 

 for it is just the same as usual. In long 

 strides, his magnificent antlers laid far back, 

 he dashes into the forest and is seen no more. 



And this year ! One evening my wife, the 

 Head Forester, Gossler and I were driving more 

 or less aimlessly in the forest. We passed for 

 the third or fourth time the corner of a 

 meadow on which a herd with a few small 



