THE POETRY OF FOREST LIFE. — BISON SHOOTING. 187 



we could not possibly tell. There was a great charm in this glori- 

 ous uncertainty. At noon, we would sit down beside some clear, 

 cold, running stream, put away the lunch and the bottle of ale, and 

 rest for half an hour. AVe always managed to get back to camp at 

 least an hour before sunset, either with one or two dead animals 

 borne upon a pole, or else a big skin or skeleton, and a few choice 

 j^ieces of meat. Near our hut was a fine sheet of bare rock, where 

 we cleaned skins, and the clear, running river near by, in which we 

 had our bath when the day's work was done. Ah me ! those were 

 indeed halcyon days, each one of them worth a whole year of 

 every-day life, and I would gladly have them back again, fever and 

 all. 



Around Moochpardi, bison were very abundant. The death of 

 our first one there occtu'red as follows : We were hunting through 

 fine bamboo jungle one morning, hoping to find a fi'esh bison trail, 

 when, glancing down a long narrow opening through the trees and 

 bamboos, I thought I saw a pair of horns move, down in a ravine 

 fully two hundred yards away. Vera was ahead of me, but had 

 passed along without noticing anything. I called him back and 

 pointed out what I had seen, and directly he declared that it was a 

 bull bison. "We stalked down to where we had seen him, in a most 

 picturesque little glen, but he was not there. He had not seen us, 

 and we knew he could not be far away. As we surmised, he was a 

 solitary bull, which was a sort of guarantee that he was a fine 

 animal. 



We at once set upon his trail, and in ten minutes came full upon 

 him at the top of a bushy ridge. Vera seized my arm, pointed 

 ahead quickly, and crouched down to be out of the way. Not 

 more than forty paces from us, head proudly up and looking full in 

 our direction, stood the noblest bison I ever saw. In an instant I 

 took a quick aim at his shoulder, well down, and fired with the No. 

 8-bore. 



He wheeled around and tried to dash away, but it was hard work. 

 He fell once, but picked himself up, and went staggering down the 

 slope at a terrible pace. Near the bottom of the hill he stumbled, 

 went do\vn upon his knees, and then pitched forward upon his 

 side, legs in air and kicking furiously. To put a speedy end to his 

 sufferings I fired a bullet from my rifle into his heart as he lay 

 there, and a moment later his earthly troubles were ended. 



What a splendid animal he was every way ! He had a very 

 handsome head and horns, an intelligent, noble-looking face, and a 



