Larch-trees and Deer 



flash of color from another trail, then two or three 

 in a flecking of light and shadow, till half a dozen 

 or more deer were gathered at the lick, some lap- 

 ping the mud eagerly, others sipping, sipping, as 

 if they could never have enough of the water. 

 After a time they would slip away as they had 

 come, singly or in groups; the spring would be 

 deserted, and one could never tell how many hours 

 or days might pass before another company began 

 to gather. 



However eager for salt they might be, the deer 

 came or went in that mysteriously silent way of 

 theirs, appearing without warning in one trail, or 

 vanishing down another without a sound to mark 

 their passing. Now and then, however, especially 

 if one watched at the exquisite twilight hour, a 

 very different entrance might be staged on the 

 lonely bog, a gay, prancing "here I come: get 

 out of the way" kind of entrance, which made 

 one glad he had stayed to witness it. On the 

 slope of the nearest ridge your eye would catch 

 an abrupt motion, the upward surge of a bough 

 or the spring-back of a smitten bush; presently 

 to your ears would come a rapid thudding of 

 earth, or a sqush, sqush, sqush of water; the 

 larches would burst open and a buck leap forth, 

 flourishing broad antlers or kicking up mad heels 

 as he went gamboling down the game-trail. If 



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