A CLEAN MISS. 



G. L. CABLE. 



Last September I went up to Beaver, 

 N. Y., for deer. I landed from the train 

 about 5:30 in the morning, went imme- 

 diately to the hotel, got on my rough 

 clothes, and started out. I went East- 

 ward, hunting carefully 4 or 5 miles, but 

 saw no game. About 8 o'clock I was walk- 

 ing rather fast and carelessly when I heard 

 a rustle to the right and slightly behind 

 me. I turned just in time to see a small 

 doe finish her first jump and start on her 

 second, which took her out of sight into 

 the bushes. Then I heard 3 thumps, and 

 my first deer was gone before I realized 

 it wasn't a jack rabbit I had jumped. I 

 followed the track half a mile through the 

 woods before I gave up. Then I returned 

 to the hotel for breakfast. 



I drifted around in the afternoon and 

 watched awhile in the evening, but saw no 

 more deer. 



I then arranged with a guide by the 

 name of Hard to go out the next morn- 

 ing. He proved a fine fellow, a Yale grad- 

 uate, who went up there 3 years ago for 

 his health and turned guide more for 

 pleasure than necessity. 



It turned very cold in the night, and 

 there was a he'avy frost at 5 o'clock in the 

 morning, when we made our start, after 

 our ham and egg breakfast. We went 

 over about the same route I had taken the 

 day before. When we reached the place 

 where I missed my first deer I was just 

 ahead of my guide, whom I called the 

 Professor, and a doe loomed up right in 

 my path, 50 yards from me. I raised my 

 rifle, glanced over my shoulder at the 

 guide and said: 



"Shall I try?" 



"Yes." 



I drew the rifle down as steadily as if 

 aiming at a target and let go. The deer 

 gave a jerk and a shiver, but did not run, 

 and the guide said, 



"You got her." 



But I didn't. She turned, threw up her 

 tail and started, just as the guide also made 

 a clean miss. We followed and saw the 

 doe standing not 20 feet beyond in the 

 bushes; but she dashed off through the 



woods before we could get another shot. 



Now for the excuse. Every one who 

 makes a clean miss, as I did, wants to 

 make an excuse. I do not lay the blame 

 on myself or the gun, or even the deer. 

 She certainly did all she could, and I held 

 as true and steady as a rock. The only 

 thing I can blame is those soft lead cart- 

 ridges. They will not carry 100 feet with- 

 out falling one foot. I did not get a chance 

 to target the gun until after. I missed the 

 deer. Later I had a crack shot test it as 

 well as myself and here is the result at 150 

 feet: With sight down to last notch, fall 

 1^2 feet; with sight up to about middle, 8 

 inches; with sight up to top notch, 2, l / 2 

 inches. 



I evidently shot between the legs of our 

 shy friend, but I will not do it again. I 

 now have. some metal jacketed soft nosed 

 bullets, and here is the result of the tar- 

 geting: With sight down, 150 feet, above 

 3 inches; with sight down, 200 yards, no 

 rise and no fall. Those cartridges I used 

 are short range, containing very little 

 powder and very soft lead. They did not 

 hurt the gun though, for I wiped it out 

 and it is as clean and as perfect as when it 

 left the factory. 



1 became reconciled to the miss, for we 

 followed the doe and jumped her again, 

 but did not get a shot. While we were 

 waiting for her to get over her fright some- 

 thing jumped out of a tree top and I cov- 

 ered it, but saw it was a fawn only in time 

 to withhold fire. The little fellow stopped 

 and turned toward us with ears up as if 

 to say, "What for you all want to kill my 

 ma?" So I contented myself by just draw- 

 ing the sights on the little thing. It stayed 

 there fully 5 minutes, occasionally chang- 

 ing its position to get a better view. It 

 was the prettiest sight I ever saw. Soon it 

 got tired and trotted away. 



We saw nothing more as we circled 

 around to a camp where we had a venison 

 and grouse dinner. Two or 3 deer have 

 been killed here since I came. One was a 

 3-point buck. They are not numerous, 

 as there has been a great deal of hunting 

 here since the season opened. 



"Ah, here is my friend, the dodo," affably 

 spoke the J. Fenimore Cooper Indian. 

 "We can sympathize with each other, friend 

 dodo. We are both extinct." 



"There can be no sympathy between us," 

 coldly replied the dodo, turning its tall 

 feathers on the other shade. "I really ex- 

 isted once, and you never did."' — Chicago 

 Tribune. 



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