THE RED DEER 
are not killed as they ought to be. These certainly bring more and more 
young stock into the world, but on the other hand they eat the place bare, 
and it is no uncommon thing nowadays to see some miserable little stag 
of twelve stones with six or eight points lording it over a harem of eighty 
or even one hundred hinds. When winter comes the stags that have rutted 
and are in a state of starvation should have the best of feeding on which 
to recuperate, whereas in reality they are forced to undergo the rigours 
of winter and spring with barely enough food to keep life in their bodies. 
To obviate this the more humane proprietors and tenants have resorted 
to the artificial methods of hand -feeding, which, though it preserves the 
stock, turns deer and deer -stalking still further towards the goal of 
pretence. Some go so far, so as to be sure at any rate of good haunches, 
to feed right up to the month of August, and we see striking pictures 
in the illustrated papers of “ a herd of wild (sic) stags on the famous 
forest of X,” taken by a photographer at a range of twenty yards. If we 
are deer -stalkers we smile, for can artificiality go much farther ? Before 
this grand sport falls into ridicule all good hunters should strive to dis- 
countenance “ the trail of the serpent ” in the form of sham, adver- 
tisement, and artifice. Some years ago I read in a journal that “ Mr X, 
the famous rifle shot, stalking on the D. beat in Glen Strathfarrer, killed 
eight fine stags at a single stalk. Such a feat constitutes a record.” I 
thought it was certainly remarkable that a man should have found eight 
shootable beasts together and killed them all; but chance led me some 
years later to this same forest and beat, and I learnt the truth from the 
stalker, who was present when the deed was done. Mr X had come on to 
eight stags, which had, as has often happened, stood still in perplexity and 
‘‘lost their heads” after the first was shot. The remaining seven were 
composed of three -year olds, with a sprinkling of knobbers, whereupon 
this ‘‘ famous rifle shot,” who rented the forest and would not be 
prevented by the stalker, in spite of protest, simply murdered the lot. 
That is not sport, and such a deed ought to be severely censured instead 
of praised. 
Quite half of the deer forests in Scotland are owned or tenanted by 
gentlemen — I use the word in its literal sense — ^who both conduct the 
sport in a proper manner, and who share the chances of the hill with 
their guests in genuine sportsmanship. These, too, are the fortunate 
ones who get the best of the fun because they know that all hunt on 
equal terms. I have had the good fortune to enjoy their hospitality on 
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