•ffn tbe Moo5s witb tbe 3Bow 



At the first note from that doughty 

 bird I was ready for a shot — over-ready, 

 indeed, with my heart shaking my jerkin 

 and shortening my breath. When you 

 shoot at a raven, let me tell you, you shoot 

 in a hurry ; for it has not the habit of pos- 

 ing as a target. Up went my bow and 

 away spun the arrow. Not carelessly, but 

 without hesitation, and certainly in a very 

 fever of desire to slay, I drove that shot, 

 and with perfect aim. There is not a 

 doubt that it would have been a center hit 

 but for an insignificant twig, which turned 

 the pile upward, so that it whacked on a 

 pine-knot, the flintiest of all woods, that 

 projected a foot above the raven's back. 



It was meant for tragedy, but the twig 

 made comedy of it. " Quoth the Raven, 

 'Nevermore!'" My arrow went somer- 

 saulting sidewise to some distance, and 

 then fell down, from bough to bough, un- 

 til at last, clear of the tree-tops, it righted 

 itself feather uppermost, and so reached 

 the path far below, sticking there slantwise 

 in the ground. Memorable to a degree 

 was the glare of instantaneous amazement 

 217 



