GEORGE W. SIMPKINS. 75 



came running down to learn if the deer had crossed. The 

 driver soon appeared and said that it was an old runway 

 that was seldom used, and none of the party wanted it. 

 "Yet," said he, "the first deer of the season took it, and 

 you'd have got a shot only for that wagon." 



Perhaps it was well that it turned out so, for, as he 

 spoke, a rifle shot was heard off to the left, where the deer 

 went, and we learned afterward that Dickinson stopped 

 my deer a mile above, and it was a fair-sized doe, in good 

 condition. 



So far there was a lack of excitement in hounding 

 deer. The long, solitary waits, not long in reality, but 

 intolerably so to a boy whose gun was ready, and, as he 

 fixed himself on the runway, mentally said: "Now bring 

 on your deer!" 



The patience of the fisherman somehow was mislaid. 

 The case was different. Of course you must wait in the 

 quiet of a mill-pond for a fish to come to sample your bait, 

 but here was a noisy, bell-mouthed hound proclaiming 

 his every move, bringing to you a new game of great size, 

 which tested your marksmanship to its utmost. He would 

 not swallow your hook and be pulled in by main strength, 

 oh, no! Here I give up the comparison. We all know 

 just how it is. I've tried to tell how I think it is, but give 

 it up. Can't do it. 



Ben Kellam took me over to the river, and put me on 

 a runway there, and left. He said that the other hounds 

 were off, some out of hearing, but they might bring a deer 

 this way. I was on a high bank on an outside bend of 

 the river, and could see down to the next bend, about one 

 hundred yards, and there was a shallow riffle that a deer 

 could walk from opposite my station to the point below, 

 on my side. I ate my lunch. Squirrels jumped about 

 and a partridge alighted on a nearby limb. Temptation 



