386 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[Marcu I0, 1906. 

far vista of the gray woods an antlered head 
would thrust out of a thicket and insultingly 
wag its ears as it faded from sight. Or on some 
distant knoll a lusty buck would leisurely stir 
about the dry leaves, searching for beechnuts, 
or browse among the young evergreens, and as 
leisurely stroll out of sight twitching his white 
tail irritatingly. 
In his silent watches a blowing whistle from 
the dense cedar tangle would stir his blood, but 
it would become more and more faint and fade 
away without cracking of twig or movement of 
bush, as if the whistle were of 
‘ 
‘such stuff 
As dreams are made on.” 
Here upon a sunny mound Rex had but a 
moment ago been lying, his bed clearly out- 
lined in the frosty herbage. But always he was 
just beyond—just out of sight. To any but a 
patient Esteban it was disheartening. 
Then came a change. How they cheered up 
when one evening became overcast! Not a 
star twinkled and there was the feel of snow in 
the air. And with snow what a change of 
fortune! “Now,” said they, “we will find the 
elusive Rex!’—and they burned their evening 
incense with deep joy and turned in to sleep 
the sleep of content while Tenderfoot snored 
sweetly. But, alas! Jupiter Pluvius started in to 
shake his snowy blankets over these woods and 
the hoary old villain kept shaking them with- 
out intermission until now it was the fourth 
day. And Notus, the south wind, pushed in 
upon the scene so that every great flake was 
just ready to resolve itself into water and every 
branch of every tree was dripping all day long. 
In the night and early dawn Rex and his court 
strolled sportively up and down the hills, writing 
the tale of their doings in the revealing snow 
and retiring to their marshy sanctuary by day. 
Now, also, came a little devil called Arthritis 
and perched himself upon Esteban’s left knee, 
pinching it and mauling it until the poor mem- 
ber was in a very sad way. 
Still in snow and slush Esteban, the indomit- 
able, pushed his search. Through marsh and 
wild tangle, over ridge and through swale he 
cautiously traced the wanderings of the amorous 
Rex in his nightly revels. But for it all he had 
only a wetting. The damp snow was as noisy 
as the dry leaves. 
So now, this last morning, the hour had come 
to be doing. Seated upon the rude split-log 
bench that served as furniture, dishpan in hand, 
Esteban announced his resignation. Rex must 
grow a year older before his head adorned that 
wall. He would then be much more grizzly, 
his antlers braver, his eye even more savage. 
And this day’s labor promised much hardship. 
All the duffle and the game must be toted half 
a mile to the river, then paddled two miles to 
the end of the buckboard road. The snow was 
a foot deep and wet, and the swamp next the 
river entirely open. He would not venture into 
the woods to hunt but would stay behind and 
clean up the dishes and stow them away, pack 
his duffle and leisurely tote it to the river. If 
possible he would photograph the beaver house 
and dam near the mouth of the brook. 
This was wise. Fernaldus and Tenderfoot 
commended Esteban’s wisdom. But who is ever 
ready to break camp without just one more little 
excursion? They would go out just for an 
hour or so. Fernaldus knew of some spruces 
on the hill where a few grouse might be found. 
Tenderfoot thought it more wet toward the 
swamp and thither he would go, also for grouse. 
But Esteban should not strain that knee. By 
all means, ran the parting injunction—by all 
means must he leave the heavier burdens. This 
was entirely to salve their consciences before- 
hand, for Esteban would never have any but 
the heavier loads for his share. 
So they were off in the early morn. | Left 
behind Esteban packed away all the dishes to 
await next October’s return, with thrifty fore- 
sight laid up a cold lunch for the journey out 
of the woods, and gathered his outing Lares and 
Penates into his tote-bag and duffle-pack. Then 
he contrived a harness and made of himself a 
pack animal, seized his rifle and sweater and 
limped off down the river path. 
Rain is often quite wet, but an over-grown, 
bushy path after three days of a wet, clinging 
snow is the wettest thing imaginable. The snow 
lav a foot deep, heavy and slumpy underneath. 
Every bush and branch was bent low under its 
wet burden, hanging ready, like the spring of 
a trap, to drop its load at the least touch upon 
the victim beneath. Thick snow was falling from 
heaven. The first plunge from the little clearing 
into the path was like the sudden jet of a cold 
shower bath. Helpless with his burdens the 
unwelcome gifts from bush and branch sought 
every unprotected spot on Esteban’s person. 
Water—ice-water—trickled down his back be- 
neath his collar. Snow found its way up his 
sleeves. The path, buried under a_ leveling 
mantle, possessed at unheard-of number of 
stones and stubs and slippery logs. After a 
weary quarter of a mile of this kind of wet he 
entered the marsh—watery, muddy, sticky. But 
the brush was less overbearing and Esteban 
splashed ahead, lame, hot and weary, and at 
last, at last reached the river. Under the shelter 
of a dense spruce he deposited his packs and 
gun. Under the shelter of another he dried 
himself as well as he could and speculated upon 
the unaccountable actions of natural man. 
But inactivity never suited Esteban. A few 
rods down stream was the mouth of the brook, 
and nearby the beaver colony. Drawing on his 
heavy gray sweater he made his way down the 
path and spent half an hour trying time ex- 
posures in the falling snow. Then there was 
still much to be transported from camp to the 
river, and he made ready to return. Should he 
take his rifle back? Surely one would see noth- 
ing on such a day and at this hour along the 
open path. Why carry the arm back to camp 
simply to have its extra burden upon the re- 
turn? And a gun is very awkward when one’s 
hands are full. Still, only the other morning 
Fernaldus, returning from a river trip, had 
heard three deer dash through the brush be- 
side the path. And the gun was not heavy. He 
would take it, for should he by any chance see 
anything and be without his rifle he would never 
forgive himself. Wise man! How reasonable 
seems the reasoning of a clear head! 
With a cheerful limp he started back to bear 
some of TVenderfoot’s and Fernaldus’ burden 
to the river. But this free-handed, light- 
shouldered trip was play beside his journey 
down. Here and there was the nearly ob- 
literated trail of some night-wandering deer, 
where he had crossed the path or followed it 
for a little. One track seemed but an hour or 
two old. Safely he waded the swamp—how 
lucky that he had his long rubber boots! Safely 
he got over the dilapidated corduroy that 
bordered the deepest wet. and squared away for 
camp through firmer footing. And here he came 
to a scrubby clearing of some long ago logging 
work, rimmed with tall cedars. With searching 
eye and slower pace he approached, all alert. 
Here the deer lived. To this swamp led all the 
morning tracks. But nothing appeared as far 
as his eye could sweep and he ventured along 
slowly around a slight bend of the path when 
he saw—shades of the mighty Nimrod! there 
stood Rex himself!—Rex the elusive, Rex the 
proud, Rex the unconquered! Stout of body, 
thick in neck and grizzly, the long-sought king 
stood, or rather crouched beside the path, 
breast-deep in the snow-buried brush, sniffing 
at his enemy’s track! 
But his good eye was toward Esteban. The 
other he had lost in a fray over some love affair. 
The sudden though slight movement down the 
path caught his quick attention and he was up 
in a flash, erect, grand, beautiful as Actzeon in 
the woods of Helicon as he turned his antlered 
head toward the sound of his own _ beloved 
hounds upon his trail. The occasion and the 
man were met. The call for swift judgment, 
instant action, accurate execution sent its ap- 
peal to the level head, the quick eye, the steady 
nerve. All the endeavor of the strenuous weeks, 
all the watchfulness, the careful maneuverings, 
the early and late toil over hill and through 
tangle focused in that one second while Esteban 
gazed upon the vainly-sought one, caught be- 
tween two winks of an eye the beautiful pose, 
countéd the smooth points of the proudly curv- 
ing antlers. It was over in a second. One shot 
—just one. There was no time for more, but 
it was not for nothing that Esteban knew speed 
and accuracy with his rifle. And the conditions 
were just right—open sky, mediuin range, clear 
field and ideal pose. One shot, short, sharp 
and Rex plunged out of sight across the path— 
and plunged, plunged, plunged through the 
thick young growth and snowy underbrush— 
and all was still. It was the moment of a life- 
time. Hot after him followed Esteban, lame 
knee, wet tangle, all else forgot. Here was the 
wild trail—great scoops in the deep wet snow 
and a crimson splash in each scoop. The 
stricken king went to his breast with each des- 
perate jump. Cautiously Esteban followed until 
it seemed that Rex had reached the higher 
timber, then he left the trail and made a wide 
circle. But he found no track beyond, so he 
worked back and came upon the fallen monarch 
just beyond the point from which he had circled. 
There lay the great head, nose buried deeply 
in the snow by the last dying plunge. A crim- 
son stain dyed his white bed at his breast and 
another behind his right shoulder. 
Ah! there is ever a pitiful element in fallen 
majesty, but the majesty still abides. Rex was 
regal when he gazed down the path at his un- 
conquered foe. In spite of the destroyer, he 
was regal still, a noble ruin! He had died as 
strenuously as he had lived. With appreciative 
hand Esteban performed the last honors. In 
the eleventh hour .he had come into his own. 
What divinity is she who presides over this 
eleventh hour? Who does not know the rosy 
touch of her favor? Who does not recall some 
lucky shot in the gathering dusk after a dis- 
appointing day, or that last despairing cast over 
an unresponsive pool and the boiling surge of 
the never-to-be-forgotten rise? She is a 
gracious goddess this golden-haired daughter 
of Fortune, and for her pledge—nothing less 
than the most fragrant Havana, nothing less 
than the oldest, the mellowest vintage. 
The Ticonderoga Club Dianne 
THE fourth annual dinner of the Ticonderoga 
Gun Club, K. W. Y. A. A. (Know what you 
aim at), was given at 62 W. oth street, Manhat- 
tan, March 2, and was the most enthusiastic and 
successful of its famous dinners, all having pre- 
viously been given at the Yale Club. Rollino, 
an ex-sharpshooter in a Roman regiment, pre- 
pared the menus, and his fine Italian hand puzzled 
some of the brethren of the forest and forced 
them to raise their peep sights one notch. W. 
Bradford Smith, an Orange, N. J., attorney, and 
one of the pioneer campers on Eagle Lake, 
Ticonderoga, where many members live and 
hunt each season, arose and called upon Peter 
Flint, the secretary, who said in part: 
“A word about the central idea of our organ- 
ization. We try to make all hunters careful 
with their rifles when in the woods after game. 
We believe that it is far better to let one or two 
deer escape than to wound a human being. No 
brown spots or moving leaves form targets for 
K. W. Y. A. A. men. I predict that soon few 
will fire until a large pair of antlers appears. 
At this happy time we shall have no men clamor- 
ing for the hounds because they are afraid to 
hunt without them, owing to the present care- 
lessness of young sportsmen. Better, however, 
than a return to the exterminative method 
whereby many deer are heated and chased to 
icy ponds, whence they escape only to die from 
colds contracted, is our idea of individual marks- 
manship and responsibility, making it every 
man’s business to see that no one aims at him 
and that he himself draws no fine hesitating 
beads on moving leaves, spots, etc., thinking 
that they may be deer. One of our number was 
saved from pulling on a guide this very summer 
by our sentiment coming into. his mind just in 
time. Many a deer is missed by haste in aiming 
before the game shows a proper outline. It 
will be better for the deer hunter to restrain this 
first wild madness to blaze away without per- 
fecting his aim. When he arrives he will be a 
marksman, and no one will fear to shoot with 
him in the forest. 
