8 MY SPORTING HOLIDAYS 



go wrong, and for days together stags might be 

 moved again and again without chance of a shot. 



On this particular occasion I experienced the luck 

 of the tyro. I had hardly commenced my homeward 

 stalk, and was still in the open ground above the 

 pine-woods, when in the trees below me, and not 

 60 yards away, I caught sight of a pair of horns. On 

 the top of one horn I saw three tines in a perfect 

 crown, and therefore knew that the stag that owned 

 them was a fine beast. My heart was in my mouth. 

 I could see nothing to shoot at. Presently the horns 

 slowly lowered and disappeared. The stag was feed- 

 ing among the trees below a steep ridge. I gradually 

 and cautiously advanced. Again the horns appeared, 

 this time nearer still. The stag was feeding towards 

 me, still under the ridge, while there was nothing 

 vulnerable to aim at, though I was simply itching to 

 shoot. But all the conditions were favourable for me 

 and against the stag. Underfoot I had a moss-grown, 

 grassy hillside, on which an absolutely noiseless 

 advance was possible. A gentle breeze blew direct 

 from the stag, who continued to feed on below me 

 and directly under a steep ridge some 12 feet 

 high. 



The game of hide-and-seek went on. I advanced 

 by inches until I could peer over the ridge. There, 

 straight below and within 10 feet of the muzzle of my 

 rifle, was the feeding stag. I could hear him cropping 

 the grass. The next moment a half -inch express bullet 

 (I was shooting that year with a *500 single Henry 

 rifle) pierced his body from back to breast, and he fell 

 stone-dead in his tracks. This stag weighed 21 stone, 

 and carried a heavy eleven-point head. Never before 

 or since have I approached so near to a live wild red- 



