There is a water-break formed by a small terrace of rock in mid-stream, and purling with a hollow, delicious monotone—an island of pebbles is above, with here and there smaller ones near the "forks." This pebbly island is directly on the runway, or customary trail which the hunted deer pursues through the forests. […] I fix my eyes steadily upon the runway—straining them almost from their sockets—still no deer.