The First and Only Hunt

And when I shot the first arrow I had ever shot, I watched its flying-wiggle through the senseless green air of the forest; past trees and flowers and honey bees, and a hornet or two; and the deer ( must have been a couple of years old), munched blithely on, without regard for death or musk, or the day’s end. And when the hunting arrow bit, it went through the dew and fur and nerves; but I didn’t expect the awful sound as it severed the ribs; a crunch, like the pebble slew Goliath; no, no, no; I didn’t expect that: And I never went again.