HUNTING THE RED DEER 
perchance still be found of a dark evening 
quietly stealing along shore in his canoe. 
Let us hope that his gun has been replaced 
by a camera with flashlight apparatus, or 
that he merely wants to see, as of yore, some 
wary old deer at close range gazing intently 
into that blazing orb of light. 
I never go into a deer country in summer 
without spending at least one night on the 
water with a ‘“‘jack,” and I rarely return 
without bringing back something worth 
while from the haunts of the furtive wilder- 
ness folk. Perhaps ’tis merely a strange 
new note in the plaintive song of a white- 
throat floating out over a pond, or maybe 
the croak of a startled bittern flapping 
off above the reeds. Perchance it is the 
memory of some wary old loon, lingering 
in astonishment, as that odd-looking moon 
drifted by andwasgone. Have youever run 
in among a flock of ducks, scurrying off 
with loud quacks from under your very 
bows? Did you ever glance upward to 
see a horned owl peering down gravely 
from a dead limb overhead? How silently 
he flies off into the darkness. How often 
have you followed the wake of a muskrat 
or a beaver until his little black head showed 
up suddenly in the light? Perhaps he was 
towing away laboriously at a big bunch of 
reeds or marsh grass for a house near-by. 
What a splash he made alongside the canoe! 
Let us go back to where you scared that 
last rat. Farther along in a shallow cove 
filled with lily pads you can just hear a 
gentle splash, splash, splash as of some one 
‘busily tearing away at the lilies. 
415 
walking in the water. No, that sound is 
not made by ripples breaking on shore, for 
you have been careful to paddle against the 
breeze. It must be a deer or a moose, for 
no other animal makes just such a noise. 
Perhaps ’tis the wise old buck that feeds 
there. So you darken the “jack,” and, 
rounding a point, move into the cove. 
The paddle now feels a friendly bottom 
underneath; it is of sand, firm and hard; 
and you push on quickly without a sound. 
A moment later the canoe enters a patch of 
reeds; what an ominous sound they make, 
scraping against its sides. But perhaps 
he’ll not notice, for right ahead he is 
Leaning 
forward, you noiselessly drop the shutter. 
Instantly the light flashes out, but partially 
obscured by rolling clouds of white mist 
rising from the water. You peer into it; 
ah! there ‘are his eyes, like twin stars in a 
background of darkness. Just one more 
push, and lo! right before you, standing 
knee deep in the water an antlered form 
suddenly looms up, like a specter in the 
hazy light. Asecond later, wheeling about, 
he dashes off toward shore in a series of 
swift, furious: bounds. He is bounding 
beyond the brake. He has reached the 
woods. He is gone! 
Yes, it was an old buck again, but still 
in the velvet. So, lighting your pipe, you 
turn back toward camp once more, hoping 
to meet him out there in the gray woods 
some brisk November morning, when the 
leaves have fallen and still-hunters are afoot. 

WHITE-TAILED DEER COUNTRY IN THE ADIRONDACKS —A_ VIEW 

FROM BALD MOUNTAIN 
