the buck changed. A glitter came
into them. It had angered him to be so hustled. And moreover, the
ponderous clumsiness of the bull filled him with contempt. When the
bull charged him for the third time, he stamped his narrow, sharp
hoofs in defiance, and stood with antlers down. At the last moment he
jumped aside no farther than was absolutely necessary, and plowed a
red furrow in the bull's flank as he plunged by.

[Illustration: "THIS TIME THE CHARGE WAS DOWN-HILL."]

Beside himself with rage, the bull changed his tactics, trying
short, close rushes and side lunges with his horns. But the buck,
thoroughly aroused, and elated with the joy of battle, was always just
beyond his reach, and always punishing him. Before the fight had
lasted ten minutes, his flanks and neck were streaming with blood.

With his matchless agility, the buck more than once sprang right over
his enemy's back. It was impossible for the bull to catch him.
Sometimes, instead of ripping with the antlers, he would rear straight
up, and slash the bull mercilessly with his knifelike hoofs. For a
time, the bull doggedly maintained the unequal struggle; but at
length, feeling himself grow tired, and realizing that his foe was as
elusive as a shadow, he lost heart and tried to withdraw. But the
buck's blood was up, and he would have no withdrawing. He followed
relentlessly, bounding and goring and slashing, till the helpless bull
was seized with panic, and ran bellowing along the fence, looking
vainly for an exit.

For perhaps a hundred yards the conquering buck pursued, now half in
malice, half in sport, but always punishing, punishing. Then, suddenly
growing tired of it, he stopped, and went daintily mincing his steps
back to where the two yearlings stood huddled in awe. They shrank,
staring wildly, as he approached, but for some reason did not run
away. Sniffing at them curiously, and not finding their scent to his
taste, he lifted his slim muzzle, and "belled" sonorously several
times, pausing between the calls to listen for an answer from the
forest. Then, receiving no reply, he seemed to remember his
interrupted quest, and moved off over the hill through the fading
light.

In the Deep of the Grass

Misty gray green, washed with tints of the palest violet, spotted with
red clover-blooms, white oxeyes, and hot orange Canada lilies, the
deep-grassed levels basked under the July sun. A drowsy hum of bees
and flies seemed to distil, with