and tight, expecting to see a deer walk out into the open.  But none came.  Leaving our stand we slipped into the woods, careful not to make the slightest sound.  Such careful, slow steps were certainly not accountable for the rapid beat of my heart.  Something gray moved among the green and yellow leaves.  I halted, and held Copple back.  Then not twenty paces away I descried what I thought was a fawn.  It glided toward us without the slightest sound.  Suddenly, half emerging from some maple saplings, it saw us and seemed stricken to stone.  Not ten steps from me!  Soft gray hue, slender graceful neck and body, sleek small head with long ears, and great dark distended eyes, wilder than any wild eyes I had ever beheld.  I saw it quiver all over.  I was quivering too, but with emotion.  Copple whispered:  “Yearlin’ buck.  Shoot!”

His whisper, low as it was, made the deer leap like a gray flash.  Also it broke the spell for me.  “Year old buck!” I exclaimed, quite loud.  “Thought he was a fawn.  But I couldn’t have shot——­”

A crash of brush interrupted me.  Thump of hoofs, crack of branches—­then a big buck deer bounded onward into the thicket.  I got one snap shot at his fleeting blurred image and missed him.  We ran ahead, but to no avail.

“Four-point buck,” said Copple.  “He must have been standin’ behind that brush.”

“Did you see his horns?” I gasped, incredulously.

“Sure.  But he was runnin’ some.  Let’s go down this slope where he jumped....  Now will you look at that!  Here’s where he started after you shot.”

A gentle slope, rather open, led down to the thicket where the buck had vanished.  We measured the first of his downhill jumps, and it amounted to eighteen of my rather short steps.  What a magnificent leap!  It reminded me of the story of Hart-leap Well.

As we retraced our steps R.C. met us, reporting that he had heard the buck running, but could not see him.  We scouted around together for an hour, then R.C. and Copple started off on a wide detour, leaving me at a stand in the hope they might drive some turkeys my way.  I sat on a log until almost sunset.  All the pine tips turned gold and patches of gold brightened the ground.  Jays were squalling, gray squirrels were barking, red squirrels were chattering, snowbirds were twittering, pine cones were dropping, leaves were rustling.  But there were no turkeys, and I did not miss them.  R.C. and Copple returned to tell me there were signs of turkeys and deer all over the ridge.  “We’ll ride over here early to-morrow,” said Copple, “an’ I’ll bet my gun we pack some meat to camp.”

But the unsettled weather claimed the next day and the next, giving us spells of rain and sleet, and periods of sunshine deceptive in their promise.  Camp, however, with our big camp-fire, and little tent-stoves, and Takahashi, would have been delightful in almost any weather.  Takahashi was insulted, the boys told me, because I said he was born to be a cook.  It seemed the Jap looked down upon this culinary job.  “Cook—­that woman joob!” he said, contemptuously.