THE GUN AT HOME AND ABROAD 
outwards, so that it may not come in contact with the bark of the tree. 
In the act of performing this the bird has a curious appearance. 
During the morning of September 21 I had a pleasant walk down the 
hills to the picturesque village of Warockta, where the peasants were 
holding one of their religious festivals. Hundreds of young Galicians, all 
dressed in their picturesque national costume, were kneeling in the grass 
outside a lovely old church, built in the old Hanseatic style, such as one 
sees in the famous old wooden churches of Norway. After service they 
thronged the roads, laughing and shouting; some few of the more devout 
praying before some wayside shrine or cross. In passing they greet stran- 
gers with well-mannered courtesy, saying, “ Slava,” the first part of a 
sentence meaning “ The Lord’s Name be praised,” to which you are 
expected to reply, “ Ra-vwiki-veikaf ” (In all Eternity). Sometimes they 
simply remark “ Zan dobra ” (Good morning), or “ Dobra nocte ” (Good 
night), as the case may be. 
In the afternoon I rode six miles to Tartarow, where the party had reas- 
sembled. No one had had any luck except Prince Franz, who had shot a 
small stag, whilst Prince Louis had seen a bear. Next day I rose at four, 
and, accompanied by Prince Lowenstein, we went two hours by train to 
Neidvorna. Here we changed, and taking a small railway used by the timber 
company travelled across a great plain into the heart of the mountains at 
Zeilona, whefe the river Chrepeloo debouches from a rugged and moun- 
tainous country. After a ride of another hour we reached the main Koliba 
amidst grand scenery. In the afternoon the Prince and I hunted on different 
sides of the valley without seeing much sign of deer, so it was decided that I 
should ascend the hills on the following day to the distant hut of Zazeiket, 
Prince Lowenstein remaining at the base, which is so comfortable that it 
is known as the “ Palace Hotel.” My companion, I found afterwards, had 
insisted on my going to the high ground, as he thought it was the best 
chance, a piece of unselfish good sportsmanship which seemed to prevail 
in the hunting traditions of Tartarow. 
Keranuk, my stalker, was somewhat of a character. A perpetual twinkle 
of amusement lurked in his eyes, and a self-satisfied dignity betrayed 
the importance of his calling. He made rather a noise when he walked, and if 
he dislodged a pebble he would turn round and frown at me. Once, when 
approaching, he slipped to the earth with a crash, and promptly turned 
round and cursed “ Henry,” the gillie. Henry’s real name was not Henry, 
but I thought it best to call him that, for the real appellation was like two 
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