est but we knew
the deer were feeding in the open. On foot we climbed upward through
knee-high grass to the summit of a hill. There seemed nothing living
in the meadow but as we walked along the ridge a pair of grouse shot
into the air followed by half a dozen chicks which buzzed away like
brown bullets to the shelter of the trees. We crossed a flat
depression and rested for a moment on a rounded hilltop. Below us a
new valley sloped downward, bathed in sunshine. Tserin Dorchy
wandered slowly to the right while I studied the edge of a marsh
with my glasses.

Suddenly I heard the muffled beat of hoofs. Jerking the glasses from
my eyes I saw a huge roebuck, crowned with a splendid pair of
antlers, bound into view not thirty feet away. For the fraction of a
second he stopped, with his head thrown back, then dashed along the
hillside. That instant of hesitation gave me just time to seize my
rifle, catch a glimpse of the yellow-red body through the rear
sight, and fire as he disappeared. Leaping to my feet, I saw four
slender legs waving in the air. The bullet had struck him in the
shoulder and he was down for good.

My heart pounded with exultation as I lifted his magnificent head.
He was the finest buck I had ever seen and I gloated over his body
as a miser handles his gold. And gold, shining in the sunlight, was
never more beautiful than his spotless summer coat.

Right where he lay upon the hillside, amid a veritable garden of
bluebells, daisies, and yellow roses, was the setting for the group
we wished to prepare in the American Museum of Natural History. He
would be its central figure for his peer could not be found in all
Mongolia.

As I stood there in the brilliant sunlight, mentally planning the
group, I thought how fortunate I was to have been born a naturalist.
A sportsman shoots a deer and takes its head; later, it hangs above
his fireplace or in the trophy room. If he be one of imagination, in
years to come it will bring back to him the feel of the morning air,
the fragrance of the pine trees, and the wild thrill of exultation
as the buck went down. But it is a memory picture only and limited
to himself. The mounted head can never bring to others the smallest
part of the joy he felt and the scene he saw.

The naturalist shares his pleasure and, after all, it is largely
that which counts. When the group is constructed in the Museum under
his direction he can see reproduced with fidelity and in minutest
de