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