THE FIRST SHOT AT A DEER. 103 



slip out of sight even in pretty open brush. So keep 

 your eye on that dark gray while I tell you a little 

 story about a friend of mine, a dilettante sportsman: 



'Twas on a clear and frosty morn, 

 When loudly on the air were borne 

 Those weird and deeply thrilling sounds, 

 The clanging tones of clamorous hounds. 

 "How sweet," said he, "that music floats 

 And rolls in wild tumultuous notes; 

 Now ringing up the mountain's side, 

 Now waxing, waning, like the tide, 

 Or swinging loud across the dell 

 Like Pandemonium's carnival." 



Hot bounds his blood in swift career, 

 When bursts the uproar still more near, 

 And hope and fear alternate play 

 With bounding joy and dark dismay. 



As louder, nearer, bays the pack, 

 Cold shivers dance along his back; 

 From tip to toe his nerves all tingle, 

 His knee-pans seem almost to jingle, 

 All o'er his skin hot flashes amble, 

 And on his head each hair doth scramble; 

 He feels his heart erratic beat, 

 He nearly melts with inward heat, 

 And grasps with quivering hand the gun 

 As nears the pack in rapid run. 



And now there comes an ominous sound 



Of hoofs that fiercely spurn the ground, 



Close followed by a sudden crash, 



As through the brush with headlong dash 



There bursts in view a lordly buck. 



" Ye gods! " he chattered, " oh, what luck ! 



But oh ! ain't he a splendid sight! 



Those spirit-eyes! How wildly bright! 



