CHAP, xxi.] DEATH OF MY FIRST STAG. 1G9 



CHAPTER XXI. 



Death of my first Stag. 



WHERE is the man who does not remember and look back with 

 feelings of energy and delight to the day, the hour, and the wild 

 scene, when he killed unaided his first stag? Of course, I refer 

 onlv to those who have the same love of wild sport, and the same 

 enjoyment in the romantic solitude and scenery of the mountain 

 and glen that I have myself: shooting tame partridges and hares 

 from the back of a well-trained shooting-pony in a stubble-field, 

 does not, in my eyes, constitute a sportsman ; though there is a 

 certain interest attached even to this kind of pursuit, arising 

 more from observing the cleverness and instinct of the dogs 

 employed, than in killing the birds. But far different is the 

 enjoyment derived from stalking the red deer in his native 

 mountain, where even r energy of the sportsman must be called 

 into active use, before he can command success. 



Well do I remember the mountain side where I shot my first 

 stag, and though many years have since passed by, 1 could now, 

 were I to pass through that wild and lovely glen, lay my hand 

 on the very rock under which he fell. 



Though a good rifle-shot, indeed few were much better, 

 there seemed a charm against my killing a deer. On two occa- 

 sions, eagerness and fear of missing shook my hand when I ought 

 to have killed a fine stag. The second that I ever shot at, came 

 in my way in a very singular manner. 



I had been looking during the chief pait of the day for deer, 

 and had. according to appointment, met an attendant with my 

 gun and pointers at a particular spring in the hills, meaning to 

 shoot my way home. This spring was situated in the midst of a 

 small green spot, like an oasis in the desert, surrounded on all 

 sides by a long stretch of broken black ground. The well itself 

 was in a little round hollow, surrounded by hi^li banks. 



