THE RED DEER 
It takes a lifetime to learn them properly, and even then a stalker should 
know the habits of individual stags on his own ground. To give an instance. 
Nowhere in the world is it more difficult to kill a warrantable stag than 
in the great forests of the Carpathians, and it is there quite common for 
certain stags, living on certain hills and roaming over only a small forest 
area, not only to remain unshot for many seasons, but even to be un- 
seen by the forester watching the beat. 
“ I think we shall get a shot to-morrow evening at the big stag on 
Magura,” said Nicolo Zaftchuk, the old stalker and ex-poacher, making his 
customary obeisance to Prince Henry Leichtenstein. 
“ Why ? ” replied the prince. 
“ Because,” answered the stalker, a smile lighting his grizzled old face, 
” Just for the last ten days he passes a little glade in the forest near to 
the river every evening at five minutes to five o’clock.” 
No one said anything or doubted the old fellow’s word, for they knew 
that what he said was true. Prince Demidoff was the lucky stalker, and he 
went to Magura that evening. At twenty minutes to five he was in a position 
near the glade in question, and at five minutes to five, to the second, a stick 
cracked, and out walked the big stag to fall to the Prince’s rifle-shot. 
That the reader may appreciate this excellent piece of work with regard 
to this particular stag, I may say that I have roamed for a week with old 
Nicolo over the vast forests and raspberry thickets (10 feet high) that 
constitute Magura, and that I found few ‘‘little glades” there where a 
stag could be seen, so that the strict observation that led to a shot 
showed intelligence of no mean order. I have never seen a stalker who 
loved the work like this old man. ‘‘ If you do not run to the stag when he 
roars Nicolo will despise you,” said my host. He would sit for hours brood- 
ing over his smelly pipe or fingering his conch -shell in anticipation of the 
roar. Then he would go off to examine forests on far-off ridges and return 
excitedly with trophies in the shape of bits of hair, fresh dung, broken 
twigs, etc. But stories of Nicolo are for another time and place. To him 
old age was a cursed thing. I have seen him strike his legs in rage because 
they could not move fast enough. 
From the point of view of beauty and interest the red stag is the finest 
animal we possess. Even in an English park, roaming through the bracken 
or resting amidst the gaily coloured chestnuts, he is an ornament we should 
be sorry to miss; but, on the hills of Scotland he is just the right thing in 
the right place. Away up amongst the rocks and waterfalls he is the very 
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