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ints, study the best positions, look to your arms; the day seems as if it would never close,--nothing is left for you to do but to muse in the interval, and think of the poor maudlin lovers, who at this very hour are squatting under a wall like so many young apes; or of him who, half concealed, stands on the watch at the angle of a dirty street, waiting with a fluttering heart the arrival of some sentimental little chit of a girl, who is nevertheless coquette enough to keep him waiting for half an hour. And again, with what disdain and contempt you regard such birds as pigeons, turtle-doves, buzzards, wild duck, and teal; hares and foxes, too, which make their appearance from time to time,--to kill these never enters your head. What, not the fox, with his splendid bushy tail? Why what do you take me for, good reader?--what can I possibly want with that?--I, who am about to knock over two roebucks and three wolves? Peace, peace, my friends; skip and skuttle about, young rabbits; nibble away, middle-aged hares,--don't put yourselves the least out of the way, you won't have any of my powder. Besides, to fire would be very imprudent, and to a great extent compromise the sport; for at this period the sun is sinking, the shadows are slowly lengthening, the roebuck are on their way, and the she wolf in the neighbouring thicket is raising her head and listening for the sounds which indicate that her prey is not far off. And you listen also to catch the slightest noise that comes on the wind,--for each and all are a vocabulary to the huntsman,--a gust of wind, the note of a bird disturbed, a weasel running across the path, a squirrel gnawing the bark, a breaking branch, startles you, circulates your blood, and puts you anxiously alive to what may follow. Everything that surrounds you at this still tour of twilight courts your attention,--the waving branches speak to you,--the hazel thicket, bending to the weight of some advancing animal, puts you on your guard; the heart beats, not for the rustling of a silk gown, nor for the hurried footfall of woman treading with fairy lightness on the fallen leaves. The syren voice is not about to whisper softly in your ear, "Are you there, violet of my heart!" nor are you about to reply, "Angelic being, moss-rose of my soul, let me press your sweet lips?" What you are waiting for are the wild beasts of the forest,--you are listening for their distant and subdued tones, their bounding sprin
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