THE GETTING OF THAT HEAD.

Shannon News, 28 June 1921, Page 4

THE GETTING O F THAT HEAD.

(Written^fbf-the Nelws).-'-

Ted and 1 were up early the first morning oi the deer-stalking. It was a wild dawn. The .wind had been fierce overnight, and offered poor prospects for rifle work. Long before daylight we were out and awaited clear light, sheltered meanwhile ty a huge rock from the cutting wind. ' Finally th£ light! {came the suddenness in that valley, then in the "most approved manner we commenced our deer-hunt against the wind. For two miles we moved quietly scanning every ridge and hillside with minute care. Nature has provided the red deer with a system of camouflage that takes some beating, and, although the stag is a large animal, he is difficult to detect in his natural surroundings. However, Ted has very keen eyes, and presently spotted one across the creek. We put our glasses on him, and found him only a four-pointer. We n'ever touch them under ten points, so contented ourselves with watching him, in the hope that he would lead up to where his friends were. He fed quietly, headed always toward a small draw, into which he finally disappeared. Our next move was to stalk that draw. This we did, and presently found ourselves flat on our “tummies,” peering with wind-cut eyes over the rim of the draw. There we “froze” to find two hinds watching our direction suspiciously. The hinds are extremely vigilant, and guard their lord and master with the greatest care. The stag, knowing this very wall, ealmly relegates picket duty ,to his wives. In this case the old fellow was lying down back-on to us at 200 yards. Ted' as usual saw him first, and therefore, according to the hunters’ code, was entitled to the first shot. This is the supreme moment to the hunter, the moment he dreams about, and works, climbs and sometimes suffers for.

Ted takes quick (dim, a little too quick, perhaps, and fires—a clean miss. Follows a scene of surprising activity. Deer spring from all directions, tearing frantically ail ways. However, only one takes our attention. The stag, now fair game for anyone, is a madly plunging target. Bang! Bang! Clean misses from both rifles. Shot alter shot and, miss after miss until finally at 300 yards, just as the buck was within a second of safety, my .303 connected with Mr Buck’s hindquarters. He turned toward us, the wound rattling him badly. My friend, with the fine chivalry of the real sportsman, seeing my “first-blood” shot, at once ceased fire. Another shot (my seventh) caught the still veryactive stag a little in front of the kidneys. My last to the throat finished his career, and he came down, end over end, his antlers clattering on the stony hillside. The taxidermist has his head and says it will mount very well* Not a really high-class head, but above the average. It is a great game. A test of a man’s patience and endurance, and a joy to the lover of the great outdoors.