Green fields and whispering woods; or, The recreations of an American "country gentleman"; embracing journeys over his farm and excursions into his library . igli-,er than my head—and apparentlya short distancewithin the woods. I crawledcautiously up the turfy terrace of^^ the bank, mounted the huge trunk ofprostrate, wind-thrown elm, and peeredthe dense covert of the forest. Yerysoon I discovered what caused the soundwhich had attracted my attention, and it waswith difficulty that I repressed an exclama-delight. Eight across a little bayou fromd distant not more than thirty yards,daintily cro
Green fields and whispering woods; or, The recreations of an American "country gentleman"; embracing journeys over his farm and excursions into his library . igli-,er than my head—and apparentlya short distancewithin the woods. I crawledcautiously up the turfy terrace of^^ the bank, mounted the huge trunk ofprostrate, wind-thrown elm, and peeredthe dense covert of the forest. Yerysoon I discovered what caused the soundwhich had attracted my attention, and it waswith difficulty that I repressed an exclama-delight. Eight across a little bayou fromd distant not more than thirty yards,daintily cropping the herbage that grew upona verdant knoll, was a fine yearling doe. Theexquisitely beautiful creature had not observed me, andfor several minutes I sat motionless enjoying the graceful those limbs ! That slender, willowy neck!How large and lustrous those glorious eyes! Why didnt I shoot? Shoot her! Why, you Vandal! You worse than savage! Shoot that delicate, fairy-like thing! Not if I had had a whole arsenal at my command !* I didnt have a single thought of attempting to kill the animal. I was merely sitting there (like a bump on a. *Tlie author is in good company here. In Howitts pleasant Boohof the Seasons we find the following paragraph: Who would not find a greater gratification in watching the happyand undestructive habits of a timid little creature than in shooting it,or worrying it with dogs P. 223, 5th London Ed. THOREAtr says: No humane being, past the thoughtless age ofboyhood, will wantonly murder any creature which holds its life by thesame tenure that he does. The hare in its extremity cries like a child.— Walden. WMY I DIDNT SHOOT. 115 log, as my discoverer afterwards more forcibly than poet-ically described it) mute with delight and admiration, whena crackling in the brush to the right sent my timid beautyflying deep into the forest, and brought me to my wits andmy feet. Was that a deer? demanded the harsh voice of oneof the hunters who had
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