the middle of the drawing-room.

This young girl selected deer as her topic. She mentioned liquid eyes,
beautiful form, slender ears; she said "cute," and "darlings," and
"perfect dears." Then she shuddered prettily.

"And I don't see how you can ever BEAR to shoot them, Mr. White," she
concluded.

"You quarter the onions and slice them very thin," said I dreamily.
"Then you take a little bacon fat you had left over from the flap-jacks
and put it in the frying-pan. The frying-pan should be very hot. While
the onions are frying, you must keep turning them over with a fork.
It's rather difficult to get them all browned without burning some. I
should broil the meat. A broiler is handy, but two willows, peeled and
charred a little so the willow taste won't penetrate the meat, will do.
Have the steak fairly thick. Pepper and salt it thoroughly. Sear it
well at first in order to keep the juices in; then cook rather slowly.
When it is done, put it on a hot plate and pour the browned onions,
bacon fat and all, over it."

"What ARE you talking about?" she interrupted.

"I'm telling you why I can bear to shoot deer," said I.

"But I don't see--" said she.

"Don't you?" said I. "Well; suppose you've been climbing a mountain
late in the afternoon when the sun is on the other side of it. It is a
mountain of big boulders, loose little stones, thorny bushes. The
slightest misstep would send pebbles rattling, brush rustling; but you
have gone all the way without making that misstep. This is quite a
feat. It means that you've known all about every footstep you've
taken. That would be business enough for most people, wouldn't it?
But in addition you've managed to see EVERYTHING on that side of the
mountain--especially patches of brown. You've seen lots of patches of
brown, and you've examined each one of them. Besides that, you've
heard lots of little rustlings, and you've identified each one of them.
To do all these things well keys your nerves to a high tension, doesn't
it? And then near the top you look up from your last noiseless step to
see in the brush a very dim patch of brown. If you hadn't been looking
so hard, you surely wouldn't have made it out. Perhaps, if you're not
humble-minded, you may reflect that most people wouldn't have seen it
at all. You whistle once sharply. The patch of brown defines itself.
Your heart gives one big jump. You know that you have but the briefest
moment, the tiniest fract