Donald MacDonald, M.D.

The man came to a stop, a look of humiliation and deep self-disgust on
his bronzed face. With methodical care he leaned his rifle against the
seamed trunk of a forest patriarch and drew the sleeve of his hunting
shirt across his forehead, now glistening with beads of sweat; then, and
not until then, did he relieve his injured feelings by giving voice to a
short but soul-satisfying expletive.

At the sound of his deep voice the dog, which had, panting, dropped at
his feet after a wild, purposeless dash through the underbrush, looked
up with bright eyes whose expression conveyed both worship and a
question, and, as the man bent and stroked his wiry coat, rustled the
pine needles with his stubby tail.

The picture held no other animate creatures, and no other sound
disturbed the silence of the woods.

By the hunter's serviceable nickeled timepiece the afternoon was not
spent; but the sun was already swinging low over the western
mountaintop, and its slanting rays, as they filtered through the leafy
network overhead, had begun to take on the richer gold of early evening,
and the thick forest foliage of oddly intermingled oak and pine, beech
and poplar, was assuming deeper, more velvety tones. There was solemn
beauty in the scene; but, for the moment, the man was out of tune with
the vibrant color harmonies, and he frankly stated the reason in his
next words, which were addressed to his unlovely canine companion, whose
sagacity more than compensated for his appealing homeliness.