“No.”
“I knew it. There has not been a partridge seen here for years. Snipes, perhaps?”
“Never saw one.”
“Then what have you been about? Have you shot nothing at all?”
“Not quite nothing. A roe-deer. The first I ever killed in my life. Here, Donald.”
With all his brevity, the sportsman could not hide the sparkle of his eye. Donald, looking equally delighted, unloosed the creature, which he had been carrying around his neck in the most affectionate manner, its fore legs clasped over one shoulder, and its hind legs over the other, and laid it down on the gravel walk.
What a pretty creature it was, with its round, slender, shapely limbs, its smooth satin skin, and its large eyes, that in life would have been so soft and bright! They were dim and glazed now, though it was scarcely cold yet.
Everybody gathered around to look at it, and the sportsman told the whole story of his shot.
“She is a hind, you see; most likely has a fawn somewhere not far off. For I shot her close by the farm here. I was coming home, not over-pleased at coming so empty-handed, when I saw her standing on the hill top, just over that rock there: a splendid shot she was, but so far off that I never thought I should touch her. However, I took aim, and down she dropped. Just feel her. She is an admirable creature, so fat! Quite a picture!”
So it was, but a rather sad one. The deer lay, her graceful head hopelessly dangling, and bloody drops beginning to ooze from her open mouth.