In the mere hunting itself the continental sportsman is often
unsurpassed.
Once, beyond the Missouri, I met an expatriated German baron, an
unfortunate who had failed utterly in the rough life of the frontier.
He was living in a squalid little hut, almost unfurnished, but studded
around with the diminutive horns of the European roebuck. These were the
only treasures he had taken with him to remind him of his former life,
and he was never tired of describing what fun it was to shoot roebucks
when driven by the little crooked-legged _dachshunds_. There were plenty
of deer and antelope roundabout, yielding good sport to any rifleman,
but this exile cared nothing for them; they were not roebucks, and
they could not be chased with his beloved _dachshunds_. So, among my
neighbors in the cattle country, is a gentleman from France, a very
successful ranchman and a thoroughly good fellow; he cares nothing for
hunting big game, and will not go after it, but is devoted to shooting
cotton-tails in the snow, this being a pastime having much resemblance
to one of the recognized sports of his own land.
Pages:
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230