plantation of birch, alder, juniper and Scotch fir, and thence across
the low-lying fields of ripening corn. And when they sat head to wind no
danger could come their way. Change of residence had made the doe, at
least, very suspicious of unaccustomed sights and sounds; the buck was
bolder and more assured.
August found the horns of the red deer fully grown and nearly free from
velvet, and it brought the stalkers to the forest. The sharp crack of
the rifle passed so quickly that it left little terror behind, the
greater cause for alarm was the stalker himself. Did the Roebuck wind
one he would bark defiantly, and his cry was as significant as the crow
of the red grouse, who also hated intruders. It was well for the
stalkers that the roedeer had another interest in middle August--it was
the season of their lovemaking, and then they were less careful about
questions of concealment.
The buck and the doe were more than ever devoted to one another now, and
the fawns were left to their own devices. They courted and played, and
were happy as though the month were April instead of August, and when
one fine morning another roebuck wished to intrude, there was a terrible
battle. The two fawns watched it from a distance. As soon as their
father saw the intruder for the first time, he rushed at him with
lowered head; the newcomer lowered his to receive the charge, and the
horns of both seemed to be locked together. They separated, but drew off
only to rush at one another again, and as each wished to avoid the
other's shock the charge was ineffective. Then they kicked with their
forelegs and stood up, and in that position the parent roebuck managed
to get in a thrust that ripped the intruder's flank badly. This ended
the struggle, the stranger retreated, leaving a little trail of blood to
mark his trail. Mother doe had watched the combatants from a safe
distance, and as soon as the fight was over she called in her own
subdued fashion, and her mate, forgetful of his bruises, rushed headlong
to her side. It had been an anxious time for the doe, for, according to
the forest laws, she must have followed the stranger had he proved a
victor.
On the afternoon of the same day the parents were still together, and
the fawns had rambled to some rocks at the head of the corrie. They saw
no danger below, and all around the place was deserted. But far away in
the blue depths above the Golden Eagle hung for a moment quite
motionless, wondering where his supper would come from. The little
doe-fawn, suspecting no evil, had advanced to the edge of the high rock
overlooking the valley; she was clearly to be seen from the eagle's post
of observation. With quick, fierce swoop the great bird shot through
space, and stuck his cruel talons deep into the fawn's shoulders. As he
did so he buffeted her fiercely with his heavy wings, and she fell
headlong on to the rock below--dead. Assured by one rapid circling
flight that no danger was to be feared the eagle followed, tore from the
half-formed body the parts that pleased him best, and then rose with a
hoarse scream of triumph to wash red beak and claws in the nearest
water.
The parents did not seem to notice their loss as they would have done in
the earlier year, but the little roebuck had seen the tragedy as he lay
crouched in the adjacent heather, pressed as closely to the ground as
the hare in her form. He at least knew now that danger came from every
side. And, as though to enforce recollection of the fact, it chanced
that he was feeding in cover by a hill-side track one evening a week
later, when the sound of footsteps made him crouch very low.
The sounds came nearer, he was afraid to move, and presently a pony came
down the narrow track with a gillie by its side. Tied on to the pony's
back was a red deer--dead, a gaping wound in its throat. The little
roebuck knew the victim for a royal stag, one of the monarchs of the
forest, whose antlers were the admiration of every hind in the district.
Yes, a rifle had cracked twice in the late afternoon in the direction of
a corrie that the great stag favoured, and, doubtless, a bullet had
found its billet. The fawn crept back to his mother's side, he did not
care to ramble any more.
A great chill came to the forest, and there were morning and evening
mists that made feeding difficult.
"We will return to the plantation," said the father roebuck; "it will be
pleasant down there now."
So they made their way back to the first home in the plantation, and all
three began to change their coat, losing the red covering the parents
had worn since May, and the young one had worn since the last white
patches had left him. By October, when the great red deer were roaring
on the high hills, and the stalker had laid his rifle down, roebuck, doe
and fawn wore the thicker livery that would be theirs till spring
returned.
It had not come before it was required, for the brief season of good
weather had passed. Now the clouds hid the high hills, the red grouse
had packed, the ptarmigan was putting on his white dress, and the blue
hare of the hills was following his wise example.
With the winter dress the appearance of the elder roedeer improved
considerably. They began to grow fat, and found an abundance of food.
The tops of young trees, ivy and rowan berries served the doe and fawn,
but the Roebuck was not averse from a raid on the turnip fields below
the plantation, and enjoyed many a meal of corn until the last stooks
were carried.
Owing to his night-prowling habits, his extreme quickness of eye and
ear, and inconspicuous colouring, he could travel unobserved and with
comparative impunity over to the farm lands. Doe and fawn were less
venturesome, and preferred to accept the restricted diet of the
plantation, rather than wander far afield. The Roebuck's favourite
movement was a canter that became a gallop when alarmed; he never
trotted, but was always ready to jump, and could accomplish great feats
if hard pressed.
With the end of December the Roebuck's antlers, which had been growing
very loose, dropped off altogether, and for the next six or seven weeks
the new ones remained undeveloped. At last they were complete, and their
proud owner rubbed off the last shreds of velvet against one of the
trees in the plantation. By this time the fawn had put out two little
points, his first year's horn, and he was so proud of them that he
damaged many saplings in order to test their efficiency.
To such a young roebuck the points were not an unmixed blessing.
Sometimes when he ran out of the plantation into the pine-wood the wire
fencing would catch and hurt them, and the damage done in the months
when his head was very tender quite spoilt its shape, and made his horns
grow awry all the days of his life. Though he had his fair share of
vanity, this mischance did not trouble him greatly, for when he went
abroad after he had grown up, there were few roebuck better off than he.
In his first winter another family joined his parents--a buck, a doe,
and a little doe-fawn about his own age. They moved and fed together
right into the spring; does and fawns keeping well within the precincts
of the wood, while the roebuck ventured afield. They were constantly on
the look-out for food, but had their stated hours for eating it. Early
morning, noon and sunset seemed to be their meal-times, and then they
would feed very delicately and within quite a small space, ready to take
alarm if a branch cracked at the far end of the wood, or a dog barked
beyond the border of the arable land, or the breeze that faced them as
they fed carried on its wings the scent of man the enemy.
In May the two families separated, and the does retired to the most
secluded corners they could find. The Young Roebuck was now left to his
own devices, and celebrated the change by putting on the summer suit of
ruddy brown, that shone when he ventured into the light. Nearly a month
was occupied by the change, and during that time he felt sick and out of
condition; but as soon as the transformation was complete his spirits
revived, and he was ready for any adventure. Throughout July he indulged
in the roughest play with young bucks of his own age, but his single
points kept the fighting from becoming dangerous, and he could not bark
as his elders did in that season. He went up to the hills alone one
night, following the tracks of the past year for it was his rule always
to choose a path he knew, and to travel in darkness, or between the
lights.
Depending upon his own exertions for supplies, he lived in comfort until
the month of August woke the stalkers into life, and then, with the
nervousness common to his years, he thought that every gun was directed
against his life. His keen hearing, fine sight and prompt action often
gave the alarm to less wary red deer; and, if half the stalkers' curses
had taken effect, his tenure of life would have been brief. As it was,
he went back to the plantation at the end of September full of the
belief that his life was threatened, and this thought inspiring all his
movements, doubtless lengthened his days.
For once there was a keen hunter of roedeer in the district; a man who
had shot game in the wonderful country lying between the Zambesi river
and the Uganda Protectorate and was anxious to try his hand at the deer
of his native land. Already he had secured fine heads of the larger
deer, and now he was bent upon following the roe, and studying the
habits of the ground game. Throughout the plantation roedeer changed
their coats to the brown and yellow livery of the colder season; and it
became hard for the experienced eye to follow their movements. They
glided through the wood's most shadowy places, lightly as the sun across
a meadow in June; never a leaf stirred or a branch cracked beneath their
tread, for the paths of their going and coming were marked.
Children making an excursion to the wood saw the circling tracks of the
roedeer, and thought that they were fairy rings made by Queen Mab for
her nightly revels. But the fairies were only the little deer who could
see the children and yet remain unseen, and were never seriously
disturbed by their stray visits. In May and June children were not
allowed to enter the wood, for the does were with their babies then, and
might have done an injury to intruders.
Through the heat of summer the deer were in the high hills, and in the
autumn they were very shy. The hunter noticed these things. He loved the
country, time was his own, and he chose a corner of the land from which
he could mark some of the comings and goings of the roedeer, with the
help of his strong glass. Then he waited all night among the corn
stooks, enduring the cold and the mist with complete indifference; and
as the dawn was breaking he surprised the roedeer's father. The old buck
gave two leaps and was off at a gallop. The hunter remained perfectly
cool, his keen eye told him what allowance he must make for the pace;
and when he fired the buck gave one last despairing jump into the air
and fell dead. By the edge of the corn land the Young Roebuck, who had
seen everything, lay low on the ground in an agony of terror, just as he
crouched when the golden eagle of the mountain seized his sister in the
previous year.
It was late November and the roedeer were growing very fat; they had
grain, turnip roots and rowan berries, as well as the tender parts of
trees and grasses to feed upon, and perhaps the quality of the food
supply kept them to their old home, in spite of the danger that
surrounded it. Now, the hunter knew the numbers and sizes of the wood's
inhabitants, and he secured two more bucks of first head before they
lost their horns. And in January and February he shot several fat does,
matching his cunning against theirs, and having no help save that of a
well-trained dog.
He might have shot the Young Roebuck had he cared to, but the new horns
had nothing more than the forward tine that shoots out in the second
year, about two-thirds of the way from the base, and the hunter had no
use for so small a head. With the end of February he left Scotland, and
three summers had come to the land before he returned.
In his absence the wood remained undisturbed. A few roedeer were shot by
farmers among the corn lands; in one very severe winter several were
killed by poachers, but the young roebuck had escaped all trouble.
In his third year the backward tine had come between the forward one and
the end of the point, and thereafter he was completely armed. He had
learned to bark quite loudly, had fought for a doe and won her from her
former master; he was a parent though without responsibilities, and was
reckoned one of the most cunning deer of the woodland.
Though he travelled far and wide no trouble came his way, hooks and nets
failed to snare him. Angry farmers, stalkers and owners of the young
plantations to which he did so much harm could not reach him with their
vengeance; he seemed to bear a charmed life. Even when he rested there
was some avenue by which tidings of danger could find way to his brain
and restore his full consciousness on the instant. His winter weight was
over fifty pounds, and his antlers were over nine inches, though their
shape had been spoiled in the days when they were no more than simple
points.
The hunter came back to the Highlands in late August and pursued the red
deer until they began to roar and seek the hinds. Then he went South, to
return in January when the snow was on the ground, when the Highland
world seemed given over to storms, and the roebuck had lost their horns.
He sought his accustomed corner and waited to see the roedeer feeding.
Very soon the glass revealed all things to him. He saw the doe come from
the wood to enjoy the stock of roots that had been piled, by his
direction, at the edge of the arable land. Presently a buck of the
fourth year joined her--a fine heavy beast.
In other parts of the woodland he saw other roedeer, and he knew that
severe weather had driven some of the red deer down from the high hills
above him. But the first pair of deer always captivated his attention.
He could not have known that they were old friends, and that he had
spared that same buck when his horns were hardly formed. Perhaps he was
attracted by the elaborate pains this buck and doe took to avoid
observation, by the way in which the buck pushed his companion forward
as an advance guard, and disappeared at the first sign or sound of
danger, leaving her to follow undirected. For days he endeavoured to get
near them, using a well-trained hound, watching in the neighbourhood of
their rings, even employing Donald to aid him in the quest.
Four years of keen observation had made the Roebuck more wary than ever,
and, aided by his protective colouring, he passed lightly from
plantation to pine-wood, unheard and unseen, while the doe was equally
successful in escaping pursuit. For days together they would leave the
hunter's boundaries, but they always returned when they thought the
place was quiet; and in the meantime the roebuck's antler's grew, and
the velvet stripped, and he was becoming a splendid buck with haunch and
head alike at their best.
Many men would have been baffled, but the hunter was unlike most people,
and did not know when he was beaten. His experience had been gained in
many countries, his store of woodcraft was very large. He made a very
careful study of the tracks by which the roedeer left the plantation for
pine-wood and feeding grounds, and then, after leaving the place quite
quiet for several days, took advantage of a strong wind, and stole up to
a point where Donald had dug a pit and put a screen of heather. There
were other dummy screens round the sides of the plantation, and the
roedeer had ceased to fear them.
That evening the doe came out and made her way to a small patch of sweet
grass that the trees had sheltered from the snow. She seemed very
suspicious and ill at ease, and many times stood for a moment with head
erect and fore-foot raised as though to sniff the breeze. At last she
was within sixty yards of the pit, and broadside on, and even as the
hunter pressed the trigger that sent the notched bullet speeding to her
brain, he knew that his aim was true. Quickly as possible he carried off
the spoil, glad at heart, for he knew that her mate must soon be his.
For two days and nights the snow fell, and then on a clear afternoon he
sallied forth again, taking advantage of wind and cover to reach his pit
unobserved. The woodland was desolate and still, no sound of life was to
be heard. He laid his rifle gently down and took from his pocket the
little call given to him by an old deer-stalker of the Austrian
highlands. He put it to his mouth.
In the heart of the plantation the Roebuck, who walked now with clean
horns of splendid growth, heard the music that the doe makes in the most
pleasant season of his life. True to his predominant instinct he forgot
the claims of caution, and rushed headlong in the direction of the
sound. It came from behind a little mound of snow, where the heather
patch had stood. The separating distance became eighty, sixty, forty
yards, and then a long barrel peeped out towards him, and with a mighty
effort he checked his gallop and prepared to turn.
In that brief moment of change the rifle spoke, and he tumbled dead in
his tracks.
THE WATER-RAT
Many people know the river in and round the market-town that stands upon
its banks, but very few have seen the parent stream where it passes
rippling for some hundreds of yards between narrow banks in the shadow
of old willow trees, for here it is on private ground. You could not
wish to see more beautiful country. There are high hills crowned with
woods and level meadows where grass is always green, and the willows
share with the poplars the custody of the water. Tiny little tributaries
enter the main stream here and there, but Jock the water-rat looked upon
these with some contempt, as though he thought they were suburban. He
had his home in the roots under an old willow tree. You saw one hole in
the bank just above the water, but there were others under the water,
and in the meadow.
When the summer day was fine and long, Jock would sit at the edge of the
hole that was made in the bank, and would survey the world with a
cautious eye and a contented expression. He was no longer a young
water-rat, and he had not passed through his life without learning that
he had enemies, but in this part of the river the trout were few and of
small size--far too small indeed to trouble water-rats, and the eels
that collected lower down by the mill seldom came in his direction, the
feeding was not good enough. Of great coarse fish like pike there was
little need for fear, the water was too shallow to tempt them to come so
far up. If we except the old heron who was no longer as smart as he had
been in the days of his youth, and now stood on one leg as often as he
did on two, and missed his stroke as often as he made it, Jock had no
enemies in the water, and this is as it should have been, for there
never was a more harmless little animal.
He wore a brown coat well oiled, and carried a black tail with a white
tip, of which he was absurdly proud, for such a decoration in water-rat
land denotes that the wearer is of good family, and Jock had cousins and
distant relatives by the score who could not boast such an adornment. He
was proud of the many doored home he had made for himself, and still
more proud of the river which, he believed, had been put there for his
benefit. He would sit for hours where the light could just reach him and
listen attentively to the soft song of the water, and the louder note of
larks that sang in the sky above him.
From time to time he would look with a patronising eye upon Mrs. Moorhen
who often brought her little black babies past the door of his house
when the mantle of summer was spread over the land. In her early days
Mrs. Moorhen had quite mistrusted him, she thought he was like the big
brown rats that lived about the barns and sometimes came to the water
side, and did what harm they could from the time when their eyes opened
until the fatal day came when the keeper brought his terriers and his
ferrets to the home farm and killed them in their hundreds.
"I assure you, Madam," said Jock, upon the day when he cleared his
character, "I would not harm you if I could, and I could not harm you if
I would. I have nothing at all to do with the brown rats of the barn, my
skin is darker than theirs, and my tail is altogether different. Why,
the white tip ought to have told you as much, even if the length had
not. Then too, my legs are shorter, and I have yellow claws, and yellow
colouring on my fur. Those fellows who live up by the barns are merely
brown. They will eat anything or anybody, and the dirtier their food is
the better they like it, but I have delicate tastes and am altogether a
clean liver."
"Will you give me your word of honour," said Mrs. Moorhen, "that you
have never eaten an egg?"
"Quite readily," he replied. "My food consists entirely of roots and
flowers and water weeds. I've never tasted an egg in my life."
Perhaps Mrs. Moorhen was not altogether satisfied at first, for she
watched very carefully from among the rushes and roots to see when and
where Jock fed. The sight reassured her. After sitting very quietly for
an hour or so enjoying the view and the music, he would let himself down
easily into the water, and swim to some plant that seemed to tempt his
appetite. He would bite it from root or stem, swim back again to his
doorway, and then squat upon his hind-legs and eat with great
deliberation. When he had finished he would remove all the débris very
carefully, and wash himself like the clean little animal he was.
Sometimes he would carry his food on to the bank, or even seek it on the
bank and eat quite away from his burrow, but his movements were all so
simple and so harmless that Mrs. Moorhen could but be reassured, and she
soon came to the conclusion that it was a good thing to have a friend in
a world that was so full of enemies.
"I haven't seen you here for long," she explained, "and when I saw you
first you were running on the land, and that made me suspicious. You
were not in these parts when I came to them in the autumn."
"The truth is," he explained, "that I have only just come back to my
home for the summer. During the winter months I could not face the water
for long, and I could not sit at the door of my burrow because the river
had risen so high, so I was forced to go inland when I was not asleep.
"You may not know," he went on, seeing that his companion looked rather
puzzled, "that during the very cold weather I sleep as long as I can,
sometimes for days together. Then I wake up very hungry and must go in
search of food, and as I cannot find much to eat in the water it is
sometimes necessary to go to the fields to find a meal in the roots."
"Are they not all cleared away by the time the very bad weather comes?"
inquired Mrs. Moorhen.
"They have been taken up," he replied, "but there is generally enough
left to yield more than I could possibly eat if I started at the end of
the summer and never went to sleep until the spring. Sometimes I store
roots and grasses in my burrow, but last year two land rats came to it.
I was frightened and would not return. I have no trouble at all about
the food supply; my only care is to avoid the creatures that one
sometimes meets on the fields in early morning or at dusk."
"I know," said the bird with a little shiver. "You mean great big men
with guns and dogs. I knew a mallard who came to live here in the rushes
with his wife, and we became very friendly. He had the most beautiful
green feathers I have ever seen in birdland. One morning in January when
there was a hard frost and my friends were lying low in the rushes, a
big dog came up to them, and they jumped up to fly away. They went head
to wind to keep their feathers in the proper place for the breeze was
strong. Before they had gone as far as the bridge there was a hideous
noise, and then another hideous noise, and one fell dead on the land,
and the other fell dead in the water, and the dog went after them and
picked them up, and I buried myself in the water up to the tip of my
nose and felt terribly afraid."