them was a slender white wooden spire. The doe did not know it was the spire of a Christian chapel, but perhaps she thought that human pity dwelt there, and would be more merciful than the teeth of the hounds.
“The hounds are baying on my track:
O white man! will you send me back?”
In a panic, frightened animals will always flee to human-kind from the danger of more savage foes. They always make a mistake in doing so. Perhaps the trait is the survival of an era of peace on earth; perhaps it is a prophecy of the golden age of the future. The business of this age is murder,—the slaughter of animals, the slaughter of fellow-men, by the wholesale. Hilarious poets who never fired a gun write hunting songs,—Ti-ra-la: and good bishops write war-songs,—Ave the Czar!
The hunted doe went down “the open,” clearing the fences splendidly, flying along the stony path. It was a beautiful sight. But consider what a shot it was! If the deer, now, could only have been caught! No doubt there were tender-hearted people in the valley who would have spared her life, shut her up in a stable, and petted her. Was there one who would have let her go back to her waiting fawn? It is the business of civilization to tame, or kill.
The doe went on; she left the saw-mill on John’s Brook to her right; she turned into a wood-path. As she approached Slide Brook, she saw a boy standing by a tree with a raised rifle. The dogs were not in sight, but she could hear them coming down the hill. There was no time for hesitation. With a tremendous burst of speed she cleared the stream, and, as she touched the bank, heard the “ping” of a rifle bullet in the air above her. The cruel sound gave wings to
