My friend Stevenson visited me a few weeks ago, and during our
conversation I asked him what luck he had during the last hunting season.
He looked at me shame-faced and said: “I don’t hunt any more. I gave it
up two years ago. I don’t believe it’s the kind of pleasure a civilized
man needs. I prefer to live for other things—for joys that give pain to
no other living thing. I’ll tell you about that last hunt. We were out
on the Hogback mountain and three of us had been standing at the head
of the Cramer Hollow while one went down along the point and drove the
game into the ravine. While we were standing there looking down the
hollow I noticed something moving through the brush far down the ravine.
I whispered to the others and we all watched the thicket closely with
eager, alert eyes.
“Pretty soon two small deer stepped into view—a spike buck and a little
doe. Silently we drew up our guns and all aimed at the unsuspecting
little creatures. How eager we were to kill. Every man tingled with
eagerness and excitement. Not a shadow of mercy flitted across our
souls. We were savages and barbarians eager for blood! Why? We had gone
hunting for the pleasure of killing something. We needed a change. We had
been tied to our business for several months and felt worn-out and low
spirited, so we went out to the woods to take on new life by taking the
life of some innocent creature that loved life as well as we. The sight
of blood would appeal to the old savage nature that still lingers in the
human heart like typhoid germs in an old well.
“‘Crack, crack, crack!’ went the three rifles, and our victim fell to
his knees. He struggled to his feet and started to run up the hill. We
could see that he was wounded badly. How our souls rejoiced and exalted.
Some one’s bullet had gone tearing through his little body and his life’s
blood was flowing away. Again our guns cracked and belched forth the
death dealing lead, and the animal fell to the earth without a cry or
appeal for mercy. Did instinct, or reason, teach the poor creature that
it need not appeal to man for mercy?
“We all rushed down the hollow to where our victim lay. There was no more
mercy in our hearts than there is charity in the heart of a rattle snake.
The deer had tried to get up again and was on its knees when we came
upon it. I was in the lead. As I approached, the dying animal turned its
hopeless eyes full upon me, and the pain and the fear and the horror, all
mingled into one last dying appeal, went straight to my heart. I stopped
dead still and allowed the others to pass me. They grabbed the animal by
the head with eager, cruel hands and turned it over on its side. I shut
my eyes, but I could hear the ugly rasping sound of the knife as it was
drawn viciously back and forth across that helpless throat, and heard the
life blood gushing out upon the dead leaves.
“I felt sick at heart. A wave of regret and remorse swept over me—of
guilt and shame and humiliation, and the sweat stood on my forehead like
animated grains of corn. I had helped kill the innocent creature for
pleasure—for the mere pleasure of killing; for I did not even like the
taste of venison.
“I was too sick to assist in the job, but the others cut through the
abdominal walls and tore out the steaming entrails like savages. Not a
thought entered their mind that this poor animal loved life as well as
they. They came to kill, and they were exultant over the killing. The
life blood went coursing through their veins in a happy, exultant stream,
and their hearts beat in tune with the song of their souls. And on the
ground the stains of red showed where the innocent blood had seeped
into the earth. If the earth is part of God, then God was absorbing the
evidence of our guilt.
“We shouldered our victim and struggled down the ravine. We tied the
animal’s legs together and had a pole between them, and put the ends on
our shoulders. I managed to take the lead, so that I need not look upon
the body of our slain friend. But with all my care I got blood on my
hands and on my clothes! While my companions took delight in displaying
the dried blood stains on their hands when we reached home, I felt guilty
of mine and washed them several times before I went to bed.
“But I couldn’t sleep for many hours after I had gone to bed—not until I
made a solemn vow that I would never willingly shed innocent blood again.”