e in the night.

Chapter 32. The Antler-bound Bucks

IN THE man-world, November is the month of gloom, despair, and many
suicides. In the wild world, November is the Mad Moon. Many and diverse
the madnesses of the time, but none more insane than the rut of the
white-tailed deer. Like some disease it appears, first in the swollen
necks of the antler-bearers, and then in the feverish habits of all.
Long and obstinate combats between the bucks now, characterize the time;
neglecting even to eat, they spend their days and nights in rushing
about and seeking to kill.

Their horns, growing steadily since spring, are now of full size, sharp,
heavy, and cleaned of the velvet; in perfection. For what? Has Nature
made them to pierce, wound, and destroy? Strange as it may seem, these
weapons of offence are used for little but defence; less as spears than
as bucklers they serve the deer in battles with its kind. And the long,
hard combats are little more than wrestling and pushing bouts; almost
never do they end fatally. When a mortal thrust is given, it is rarely a
gaping wound, but a sudden springing and locking of the antlers, whereby
the two deer are bound together, inextricably, hopelessly, and so suffer
death by starvation. The records of deer killed by their rivals and left
on the duel-ground are few; very few and far between. The records of
those killed by interlocking are numbered by the scores.

There were hundreds of deer in this country that Rolf and Quonab
claimed. Half of them were bucks, and at least half of these engaged in
combat some times or many times a day, all through November; that is to
say, probably a thousand duels were fought that month within ten miles
of the cabin. It was not surprising that Rolf should witness some of
them, and hear many more in the distance.

They were living in the cabin now, and during the still, frosty nights,
when he took a last look at the stars, before turning in, Rolf formed
the habit of listening intently for the voices of the gloom. Sometimes
it was the "hoo-hoo" of the horned-owl, once or twice it was the long,
smooth howl of the wolf; but many times it was the rattle of antlers
that told of two bucks far up in the hardwoods, trying out the
all-important question, "Which is the better buck?"

One morning he heard still an occasional rattle at the same place as the
night before. He set out alone, after breakfast, and coming cautiously
near, peered into a little, open