Ho! brother spirit, tarry, tarry—wait thou a little ’till I join thee,—then, how gallantly we’ll ride! Couched on summer clouds, lazily we’ll float: or, glancing on sun rays, shoot swift as thought, ’mid the bright worlds rolling in sublimity above us. We’ll bathe in the Moon’s cold splendour, fan in the sultry heat of crimson Mars, slide upon Saturn’s eternal snows, or joyously gambolling along the Milky Way, we’ll chase the starry Serpent to his den. Ho! brother spirit;—but, we must bide our time—madly now in wild career, thou sweep’st the placid lake from under us. But whom have we here? A sturdy hunter in homespun clad, with his long rifle—his broad-chested hounds in quiet, sleeping at his feet; our fellow-passenger, ’till landed on some mountain side, he follows his sylvan war. Clear animal health and vigour shine from each lineament—with what open, unsuspicious manhood—what boundless freedom he comports himself. Ha! what is it, hound? What is it? Why dost shake thy pendant ears and gaze so keenly in the distance—and why that plaintive howl? Ay, ay, hunter, thy practised eye hath caught it. On yon wooded island to the windward—a noble buck with graceful form and branching antlers. He sees us not, but the dog’s quick senses have caught his scent upon the passing wind. Still, boy, still! Pilot, put her a little more under the island. Hunter, lend me thy rifle—launch the canoe. Come, hunter—peace—peace—keep the dogs on board; paddle for yonder point—now we shoot upon the pebbly beach—now make her fast to this dead log. We’ll steal gently through the woods and come upon him unawares. Softly—press those vines away; whist—avoid the rustling of the branches; here, creep through these bushes—tread lightly on the fallen leaves—you’ll mire upon that swampy bottom. Hush—hush—tread softly—that crackling branch! He lifts his head—he looks uneasily about him—stand quiet. Now he browses again; get a little nearer—we are within distance. I’ll try him—click. Back go the antlers—the cocking of the rifle has alarmed him—he’s off! Here goes, hit or miss—crack—he jumps ten feet in the air. I’ve missed him—he bounds onward—no—yes—by Jove! he’s down—he’s up again—he plunges forward—he falls again—he rises—falls—he struggles to his knees—he——falls. Hurrah! he’s ours—quick—quick—thy _couteau de chasse_, we’ll make sure of him. Stop—stop. Poor deer! and _I_ have murdered thee, for my _sport_ have murdered thee—have taken from thee the precious boon of life—with cruelty have broken the silver chord, which the beggar’s blunt knife can sever, but not the jewelled fingers of the monarch again rejoin. There—there, thou liest, true to the Great Master’s picture— “The big round tears course down thy innocent nose in piteous chase, And thy smooth leathern sides pant almost to bursting.”