I GET A SHOT. 37 



Maybe it was a little fault in the wind, perhaps something else 

 caused the alarm, anyway the deer as I lay watching them, growing 

 colder and colder every minute, my clothes being wet and the ground 

 still more so, took fright, stood up quickly and commenced to move 

 off. This threw my stag practically broadside on, and I took a quick 

 shot at him. I made up my mind I would not over-shoot this time 

 and I did not. 



At the sound of the gun he sprung what looked like ten feet straight 

 up into the air and then was away like a whirlwind. I knew what 

 I had done, and when we got to the place where he had stood I proved 

 myself to have been right in my conjecture. There was a nice little 

 bunch of hair about the size of the nub you have seen your sister or 

 some other lady roll up after she had been performing the morning 

 operation with her crowning glory the size of a walnut, I should say. 

 Not even a piece of hide attached to it. I had just cut a nice little 

 groove across the under side of my stag's breast. In this case as in 

 the other, Donald made excuses. He said the shot was hard; said 

 it was a hazardous one; he remarked again that it was "verra hard 

 to shoot when ane war sae cauld." In brief the fine fellow made 

 every excuse he could think of to explain my poor shooting. I told 

 him the truth. I just missed, that was all. 



Through the glasses the deer seemed not so frightened after they 

 had gotten half a mile away from us, and they finally settled and 

 went to feeding again, all but the one I had shot at, a little over a 

 mile further along the mountain side. 



We stalked again, and once more successfully. This time my beast 

 was lying in a little gully practically 200 yards away on a hillside just 

 as near the color of a deer as anything I ever saw. I could just see 

 his horns above the heather. I had to lie and wait for him to get up. 

 I waited and I waited. The sun was rapidly going down. I was wet 

 through ; I had been warm from the stalk and I grew cold, very 

 cold. 



Also I grew angry at that deer and more eager to kill him with 

 every passing second. Finally he rose hurriedly and started up the 

 hill, not quite but almost broadside on. I swung the muzzle of the 

 rifle with him and intended to wait until I was absolutely sure and 

 then plug him where it would do him the most harm. But I did not. 



