go baying and yelping on the track of
the poor beast. The deer have their established runways, as I said; and,
when they are disturbed in their retreat, they are certain to attempt to
escape by following one which invariably leads to some lake or stream.
All that the hunter has to do is to seat himself by one of these
runways, or sit in a boat on the lake, and wait the coming of the
pursued deer. The frightened beast, fleeing from the unreasoning
brutality of the hounds, will often seek the open country, with a
mistaken confidence in the humanity of man. To kill a deer when he
suddenly passes one on a runway demands presence of mind and quickness
of aim: to shoot him from the boat, after he has plunged panting into
the lake, requires the rare ability to hit a moving object the size of
a deer's head a few rods distant. Either exploit is sufficient to make
a hero of a common man. To paddle up to the swimming deer, and cut his
throat, is a sure means of getting venison, and has its charms for some.
Even women and doctors of divinity have enjoyed this exquisite pleasure.
It cannot be denied that we are so constituted by a wise Creator as to
feel a delight in killing a wild animal which we do not experience in
killing a tame one.

The pleasurable excitement of a deer-hunt has never, I believe, been
regarded from the deer's point of view. I happen to be in a position, by
reason of a lucky Adirondack experience, to present it in that light. I
am sorry if this introduction to my little story has seemed long to
the reader: it is too late now to skip it; but he can recoup himself by
omitting the story.

Early on the morning of the 23d of August, 1877, a doe was feeding on
Basin Mountain. The night had been warm and showery, and the morning
opened in an undecided way. The wind was southerly: it is what the
deer call a dog-wind, having come to know quite well the meaning of "a
southerly wind and a cloudy sky." The sole companion of the doe was her
only child, a charming little fawn, whose brown coat was just beginning
to be mottled with the beautiful spots which make this young creature
as lovely as the gazelle. The buck, its father, had been that night on a
long tramp across the mountain to Clear Pond, and had not yet returned:
he went ostensibly to feed on the succulent lily-pads there. "He feedeth
among the lilies until the day break and the shadows flee away, and he
should be here by this hour; but he cometh not," she said, "