208 Deer of the Pacific Coast 



with a bunch of grapes. Bean vines, melons, 

 squashes, and many other things he harvests often 

 more completely than the settler would if he had 

 a chance. 



Few things in California have been more amus- 

 ing than the efforts of many a settler near the 

 base of the hills to reimburse his loss by killing 

 one of these mischievous deer for the table. After 

 deciding to have some venison of his own fatten- 

 ing, and buying a new rifle with plenty of shine 

 on it, he discovers that the deer which people tell 

 him are on foot morning and evening in the hills, 

 don't exist around his place. This is true mainly 

 when they are living on the native feed of the 

 hills. When they are raiding fine raisin grapes, 

 they wait until night has drawn her heaviest cur- 

 tains over the eyes of the tenderfoot. By the 

 time it is light enough to read on the bare ground 

 the record of their banquet, they are far up the 

 hillside again. Being well dined, they have no 

 use for any of the native feed they got along with 

 while the grapes were growing. They have noth- 

 ing farther to do but lie down in the heaviest 

 brush, and smile at the sound of heavy boots 

 scraping and stumbling up the hill. If the 

 breath of the owner of the boots holds out for 

 the thousand feet or more of ascent generally 

 necessary, they smile still more as he puffs and 

 pants around in the chaparral, which he reaches 



