CHRISTOPHER IN HIS SPORTING JACKET 



know that but one single fish has run up from the sea 

 — so we, a true hunter, neither grudged nor wearied 

 to stand for hours, still as the heron by the stream, 

 hardly in hope, but satisfied with the possibility, that 

 a deer might pass by us in the desert. Steadiest and 

 strongest is self-fed passion springing in spite of cir- 

 cumstance. When blows the warm showery south-west 

 wind, the trouts turn up their yellow sides at every 

 dropping of the fly on the curling water — and the 

 angler is soon sated with the perpetual play. But 

 once — twice — thrice — during a long blustering day 

 — the sullen plunge of a salmon is sufficient for that 

 day''s joy. Still, therefore, still as a cairn that stands 

 for ever on the hill, or rather as the shadow on a dial, 

 that though it moves is never seen to move, day after 

 day were we on our station in the Great Glen. A 

 loud, wild, wrathful, and savage cry from some huge 

 animal made our heart leap to our mouth, and bathed 

 our forehead in sweat. We looked up — and a red-deer 

 — a stag of ten — the king of the forest — stood with 

 all his antlers, snuffing the wind, but yet blind to our 

 figure overshadowed by a rock. The rifle-ball pierced 

 his heart — and leaping up far higher than our head, 

 he tumbled in terrific death, and lay stone-still before 

 our starting eyes amid the rustling of the strong- 

 bented heather! There we stood surveying him for a 

 long triumphing hour. Ghastly were his glazed eyes — 

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