CHAPTER XIII. 



DONALD TAKES ME FOR THE LAST STALK. 



ND now for me came the designation of a stalker and a spot 

 which above all others most pleased me. I was to go with 

 Donald, Donald of my first deer, Donald of my lucky double 

 when I happened to get the flying big gray fellow on the mountainside, 

 after I had killed his smaller brother, a few seconds before. Donald 

 who had given me my first taste of the hardships and the goodships, 

 the toil and the rest, the misery and the joy of Highland deer stalking. 

 Together we were to go to far Corrie Vattie, twelve miles out. 



We started early, and taking notice of my stiff knee, I rode for the 

 greater part of the way up. It was a misty, rainy day. I remember 

 how misty and rainy because after we had come down from the 

 ponies; and made our first climb and spied deer and found hinds in 

 the way; and tried to make them move on by putting a handkerchief 

 up by means of a stick, above the hiding rock; and after they had 

 made haste away, instead of going cautiously, and frightened the 

 whole herd; we selected a stag and I had tried to shoot. 



But the rain met me full in the face and my glasses would not stay 

 clear long enough for me to align the sights. I tried once and I tried 

 twice; I tried many times. It was impossible. My eyes are not strong 

 and there is a defect of vision through astigmatism. The light was 

 poor, but I had to do something, so I pulled the shooting glasses down 

 low on my nose and tried a quick though careful aim with the naked 

 eye. 



I felt satisfied at the first attempt and pulled, to see the following 

 sink and sway and then to my anxiety a movement to the front by 

 my deer. But he was not to escape. He had not gone many feet, 

 until he stopped, swayed for an instant and then crashed broadside 

 down, legs extended, obviously dead at the moment. 



