The Heart of the Wild: Nature Studies from Near and Far

by S. L. Bensusan

“But what about the babies?” said the doe anxiously; “don’t forget the great big stags with long horns that live up there.”

“It is quite safe,” explained the Roebuck; “we are good friends. Next to the red grouse, there is no bird or beast that does so much for the red deer as we do. At the first sign of danger we give the alarm, and send the red herd scampering over the hills out of harm’s way. Often when the stalkers are abroad we spoil their day’s work by coming between them and the quarry. So you have nothing to fear from our big cousins.”

Reassured, the doe and her fawns accompanied the roebuck to the high hills, choosing night-time for the journey, with the fear of mankind before them. Food was less plentiful in the high grounds, but there were sufficient grasses to keep serious trouble away, and the cool shade was free from the worries that went with it below.

From their new home they could see right across the pinewood, over the plantation of birch, alder, juniper and Scotch fir, and thence across the low-lying fields of ripening corn. And when they sat head to wind no danger could come their way. Change of residence had made the doe, at least, very suspicious of unaccustomed sights and sounds; the buck was bolder and more assured.

August found the horns of the red deer fully grown and nearly free from velvet, and it brought the stalkers to the forest. The sharp crack of the rifle passed so quickly that it left little terror behind, the greater cause for alarm was the stalker himself. Did the Roebuck wind one he would bark defiantly, and his cry was as significant as the crow of the red grouse, who also hated intruders. It was well for the stalkers that the roedeer had another interest in middle August—it was the season of their lovemaking, and then they were less careful about questions of concealment.

The buck and the doe were more than ever devoted to one another now, and the fawns were left to their own devices. They courted and played, and were happy as though the month were April instead of August, and when one fine morning another roebuck wished to intrude, there was a terrible battle. The two fawns watched it from a distance. As soon as their father saw the intruder for the first time, he rushed at him with lowered head; the newcomer lowered his to receive the charge, and the horns of both seemed to be locked together. They separated, but drew off only to rush at one another again, and as each wished to avoid the other’s shock the charge was ineffective. Then they kicked with their forelegs and stood up, and in that position the parent roebuck managed to get in a thrust that ripped the intruder’s flank badly. This ended the struggle, the stranger retreated, leaving a little trail of blood to mark his trail. Mother doe had watched the combatants from a safe distance, and as soon as the fight was over she called in her own subdued fashion, and her mate, forgetful of his bruises, rushed headlong to her side. It had been an anxious time for the doe, for, according to the forest laws, she must have followed the stranger had he proved a victor.

On the afternoon of the same day the parents were still together, and the fawns had rambled to some rocks at the head of the corrie. They saw no danger below, and all around the place was deserted. But far away in the blue depths above the Golden Eagle hung for a moment quite motionless, wondering where his supper would come from. The little doe-fawn, suspecting no evil, had advanced to the edge of the high rock overlooking the valley; she was clearly to be seen from the eagle’s post of observation. With quick, fierce swoop the great bird shot through space, and stuck his cruel talons deep into the fawn’s shoulders. As he did so he buffeted her fiercely with his heavy wings, and she fell headlong on to the rock below—dead. Assured by one rapid circling flight that no danger was to be feared the eagle followed, tore from the half-formed body the parts that pleased him best, and then rose with a hoarse scream of triumph to wash red beak and claws in the nearest water.

The parents did not seem to notice their loss as they would have done in the earlier year, but the little roebuck had seen the tragedy as he lay crouched in the adjacent heather, pressed as closely to the ground as the hare in her form. He at least knew now that danger came from every side. And, as though to enforce recollection of the fact, it chanced that he was feeding in cover by a hill-side track one evening a week later, when the sound of footsteps made him crouch very low.

The sounds came nearer, he was afraid to move, and presently a pony came down the narrow track with a gillie by its side. Tied on to the pony’s back was a red deer—dead, a gaping wound in its throat. The little roebuck knew the victim for a royal stag, one of the monarchs of the forest, whose antlers were the admiration of every hind in the district. Yes, a rifle had cracked twice in the late afternoon in the direction of a corrie that the great stag favoured, and, doubtless, a bullet had found its billet. The fawn crept back to his mother’s side, he did not care to ramble any more.

A great chill came to the forest, and there were morning and evening mists that made feeding difficult.