The dogs do the hunting, the men the killing.The hounds are sent into the forest to rouse the deer, and drive him from his cover.
They climb the mountains, strike the trails, and 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, "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."The doe was feeding, daintily cropping the tender leaves of the young shoots, and turning from time to time to regard her offspring.The fawn had taken his morning meal, and now lay curled up on a bed of moss, watching contentedly, with his large, soft brown eyes, every movement of his mother.The great eyes followed her with an alert entreaty; and, if the mother stepped a pace or two farther away in feeding, the fawn made a half movement, as if to rise and follow her.
You see, she was his sole dependence in all the world.But he was quickly reassured when she turned her gaze on him; and if, in alarm, he uttered a plaintive cry, she bounded to him at once, and, with every demonstration of affection, licked his mottled skin till it shone again.
It was a pretty picture,--maternal love on the one part, and happy trust on the other.The doe was a beauty, and would have been so considered anywhere, as graceful and winning a creature as the sun that day shone on,--slender limbs, not too heavy flanks, round body, and aristocratic head, with small ears, and luminous, intelligent, affectionate eyes.How alert, supple, free, she was! What untaught grace in every movement! What a charming pose when she lifted her head, and turned it to regard her child! You would have had a companion picture if you had seen, as I saw that morning, a baby kicking about among the dry pine-needles on a ledge above the Au Sable, in the valley below, while its young mother sat near, with an easel before her, touching in the color of a reluctant landscape, giving a quick look at the sky and the outline of the Twin Mountains, and bestowing every third glance upon the laughing boy,--art in its infancy.
The doe lifted her head a little with a quick motion, and turned her ear to the south.Had she heard something? Probably it was only the south wind in the balsams.There was silence all about in the forest.If the doe had heard anything, it was one of the distant noises of the world.There are in the woods occasional moanings, premonitions of change, which are inaudible to the dull ears of men, but which, I have no doubt, the forest-folk hear and understand.If the doe's suspicions were excited for an instant, they were gone as soon.With an affectionate glance at her fawn, she continued picking up her breakfast.
But suddenly she started, head erect, eyes dilated, a tremor in her limbs.She took a step; she turned her head to the south; she listened intently.There was a sound,--a distant, prolonged note, bell-toned, pervading the woods, shaking the air in smooth vibrations.It was repeated.The doe had no doubt now.She shook like the sensitive mimosa when a footstep approaches.It was the baying of a hound! It was far off,--at the foot of the mountain.
