It is marvellous
how many times you may shoot an arrow into a flock of pigeons and
never kill one. Rolf went on and on, always in sight of the long,
straggling flocks on the ground or in the air, but rarely within
range of them. Again and again he fired a random shot into the
distant mass, without success for two hours. Finally a pigeon was
touched and dropped, but it rose as he ran forward, and flew ten
yards, to drop once more. Again he rushed at it, but it fluttered
out of reach and so led him on and on for about half an hour's
breathless race, until at last he stopped, took deliberate aim,
and killed it with an arrow.
Now a peculiar wailing and squealing from the woods far ahead
attracted him. He stalked and crawled for many minutes before he
found out, as he should have known, that it was caused by a
mischievous bluejay.
At length he came to a spring in a low hollow, and leaving his
bow and arrows on a dry log, he went down to get a drink
As he arose, he found himself face to face with a doe and a fat,
little yearling buck, only twenty yards away. They stared at him,
quite unalarmed, and, determining to add the yearling to his bag,
Rolf went back quietly to his bow and arrows.
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