iFn tbe IKlloobs witb tbe Bow 



the second one was a memorable prize on account 

 of the circumstances, which I enjoy thinking about 

 and recording while Jarvis snores on his bed in 

 the comer, and the frogs somewhere sing a grat- 

 ing, underground song. I hear the sound of my 

 shot in spite of these noises, a sort of pervading 

 sweet echo, going, as it were, from place to place 

 in my brain, filling me with a savage yet delicate 

 delight. I stood staring at my bird, just discovered 

 under the farther bank of the stream, where it 

 evidently thought itself quite hidden. A ray of 

 sunlight made its variegated side shine like a clus- 

 ter of gems seen through a latticework of long, 

 dry grass hanging down from the bank. Seventy 

 yards was the range, as I reckoned it instantane- 

 ously while drawing the arrow up in the bow. I 

 see now, just as I saw then, all the particulars of 

 the landscape : the little field, the trees and height 

 beyond, the narrow, shallow river lapsing with a 

 gentle swash, the kingfishers streaking the amber 

 air, the drooping sear grass, the wood-duck, and 

 the cool cavern of the bluff beyond it — all that I 

 saw, and yet my vision was focused steadfastly on 

 the bright spot at the butt of the bird's gay wing. 

 And smoothly slipped my shaft across my bow 

 until I was aware of the pile's end resting for the 

 tenth part of a second almost even with the bow's 

 back. " Scutch ! siz-z-z ! chuff ! " The recoil first, 

 the whisper of the feather, a grayish Hne in the air, 

 a low arch sprung from my eye to the bird, and 

 then a puff of feathers. 



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