THE FIRST SIGHT OF GAME. 95 



Twenty yards more are passed, and your heart be- 

 gins to labor heavily, for the crisis fast approaches. 

 A long look. Nothing stirs. The silence becomes 

 painfully suspicious. A moment more and you reach 

 the edge of the bushes. The bright sun filters through 

 them; the bluejay jangles his discordant notes in the 

 tree above; the raven wheeling on high grates his dis- 

 mal throat; but of venison there is neither sight nor 

 sound. Going around the bushes, you find on the 

 side toward the creek those marks so refreshing to the 

 soul of the weary hunter whose internal economy has 

 for half an hour been running under the superheated 

 steam of anticipation fresh tracks of plunging jumps 

 twelve or fifteen feet apart. 



I have seen men who would blame the deer for all 

 this and start for home, declaring still-hunting a 

 fraud and vowing vengeance on any one who ever 

 again mentioned the pestiferous business. I have 

 known others who blamed themselves for it entirely, sat 

 down and meditated the causes of their failure, and 

 arose with increased respect and admiration for the 

 deer, double determination to conquer him and his 

 tricks, and redoubled ardor for the chase. For the 

 first class this book is not written. The Adirondack 

 guide who holds a deer by the tail in the water for 

 his patrons to shoot from the boat with a shot-gun, 

 or the owner of the scaffold at some salt-lick, can give 

 such all the information they are likely ever to need 

 or appreciate. But you, for whom this is written, can 

 learn a good lesson here. 



You took care to keep the wind in your face; you 

 went quietly enough and slowly enough; you also 

 looked keenly enough. So far very well. 



But you forgot two very important things. 



