THE EOE. 29 



the stomach of those he attacks, cause oftentime grave 

 wounds. 



The buck remains the -winter through with the doe 

 and her kids, but when the time comes for changing his 

 grey winter coat, he leaves her and roams alone. You 

 may be startled as you wander along a hill-side at 

 evening to hear suddenly from the opposite . slope, a 

 short, harsh, abrupt sound, breaking upon the tran- 

 quillity of that retired spot. You look up, but see 

 nothing. A moment after it is repeated, but this time 

 not once only, as at first, but two or even three such 

 short angry sounds follow each other in quick succes- 

 sion. Ah, now you see him I There he stands on 

 yonder upland, in the middle of the clear green space, 

 between the bushes and the young birches, whose 

 branches still scatter rain-drops as the breeze gently 

 rocks them. There had been a shower in the after- 

 noon, but the sun came out later, and the evening is 

 fine, and so he has left the wet coppice and come out 

 upon the glade. He stands for a moment at gaze, 

 stamps with his foot, utters again the short discordant 

 sound, still looks at you in fear and great astonishment, 

 and then is off to the thicket. The doe, when scared, 

 expresses her fear in the same manner, but -with her the 

 sound is in a higher key. It is as though the French 

 word "?)cei«/" were pronounced as gutturally as possible, 

 with the omission of the final /, and repeated quickly. 



