STALKING A BUCK

RESTING on leaves of feathery pine,
 Stilling my lurcher’s eager whine,
Stealthy and watchful I recline.

Gray streaks are in the eastern sky:
The morning breeze floats gently by,
And all alert of hand or eye

I watch the mist rise o’er the stream.
Slowly athwart the copses gleam
Bright streaks of sunlight; and one beam

Dashes against the wrinkled crag
Where, mid the ferns and brake and rag-
Wort, feeds alone a gallant stag.

A hundred rods I needs must pass
Through brake, and thorn, and rank wet grass,
O’er fallen logs and deep morass.

A clump of briars is gained unseen.
Cautious, above the leafy screen
I raise my head: with royal mien

And antlered brow of regal pride,
His forefeet in the rippling tide,
There stands the stag, his glossy side

Turned fairly to me. True and fine
The sights range up in deadly line—
One sharp report—the stag is mine!

Beneath a rustic roof of bark
Idly I course each rising spark,
Limned on the hemlocks grim and dark.

Red steaks are broiling, sweet and slow,
And in the camp-fire’s ruddy glow
A crystal streamlet sings below.

My lurcher, crouching at my side,
In very joy and canine pride
Keeps watch upon the antlered hide.

Oh, for a heaven wherein the deer
Shall be more plentiful than here—
And brown October all the year!