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, “leaping upon the mountains, skipping upon the hills.”  Clear Pond was too far off for the young mother to go with her fawn for a night’s pleasure.  It was a fashionable watering-place at this season among the deer; and the doe may have remembered, not without uneasiness, the moonlight meetings of a frivolous society there.  But the buck did not come:  he was very likely sleeping under one of the ledges on Tight Nippin.  Was he alone?  “I charge you, by the roes and by the hinds of the field, that ye stir not nor awake my love till he please.”