“No, Jean—she died.”
“You poor man!” she cried. “Did it almost break your heart? Oh, I can feel all you felt when your sweetheart died, for there can be no greater sorrow than to be homesick—to wish so earnestly for the ones you love best on earth—to long for your mother’s breast—that you may lay your aching head down and close your eyes and think only of how dear she is to you. Oh, I’m so glad you told me of your dead sweetheart, for you know how it feels to be sad and sorrowful, and can sympathize with a homesick girl!”
WHY HE QUIT HUNTING
My friend Stevenson visited me a few weeks ago, and during our conversation I asked him what luck he had during the last hunting season. He looked at me shame-faced and said: “I don’t hunt any more. I gave it up two years ago. I don’t believe it’s the kind of pleasure a civilized man needs. I prefer to live for other things—for joys that give pain to no other living thing. I’ll tell you about that last hunt. We were out on the Hogback mountain and three of us had been standing at the head of the Cramer Hollow while one went down along the point and drove the game into the ravine. While we were standing there looking down the hollow I noticed something moving through the brush far down the ravine. I whispered to the others and we all watched the thicket closely with eager, alert eyes.
“Pretty soon two small deer stepped into view—a spike buck and a little doe. Silently we drew up our guns and all aimed at the unsuspecting little creatures. How eager we were to kill. Every man tingled with eagerness and excitement. Not a shadow of mercy flitted across our souls. We were savages and barbarians eager for blood! Why? We had gone hunting for the pleasure of killing something. We needed a change. We had been tied to our business for several months and felt worn-out and low spirited, so we went out to the woods to take on new life by taking the life of some innocent creature that loved life as well as we. The sight of blood would appeal to the old savage nature that still lingers in the human heart like typhoid germs in an old well.
“‘Crack, crack, crack!’ went the three rifles, and our victim fell to his knees. He struggled to his feet and started to run up the hill. We could see that he was wounded badly. How our souls rejoiced and exalted. Some one’s bullet had gone tearing through his little body and his life’s blood was flowing away. Again our guns cracked and belched forth the death dealing lead, and the animal fell to the earth without a cry or appeal for mercy. Did instinct, or reason, teach the poor creature that it need not appeal to man for mercy?
“We all rushed down the hollow to where our victim lay. There was no more mercy in our hearts than there is charity in the heart of a rattle snake. The deer had tried to get up again and was on its knees when we came upon it. I was in the lead. As I approached, the dying animal turned its hopeless eyes full upon me, and the pain and the fear and the horror, all mingled into one last dying appeal, went straight to my heart. I stopped dead still and allowed the others to pass me. They grabbed the animal by the head with eager, cruel hands and turned it over on its side. I shut my eyes, but I could hear the ugly rasping sound of the knife as it was drawn viciously back and forth across that helpless throat, and heard the life blood gushing out upon the dead leaves.
“I felt sick at heart. A wave of regret and remorse swept over me—of guilt and shame and humiliation, and the sweat stood on my forehead like animated grains of corn. I had helped kill the innocent creature for pleasure—for the mere pleasure of killing; for I did not even like the taste of venison.
“I was too sick to assist in the job, but the others cut through the abdominal walls and tore out the steaming entrails like savages. Not a thought entered their mind that this poor animal loved life as well as they. They came to kill, and they were exultant over the killing. The life blood went coursing through their veins in a happy, exultant stream, and their hearts beat in tune with the song of their souls. And on the ground the stains of red showed where the innocent blood had seeped into the earth. If the earth is part of God, then God was absorbing the evidence of our guilt.