Every morning and every evening Murger fired at the hare, but with such
little effect, that the hare soon took no notice either of Murger or his
gun, and gambolled before them both as if they were simply a scarecrow.
Murger bagged but one piece of game in the whole course of his life, and
the way this was done happened in this wise. One day he was asleep at
the foot of a tree in the Forest of Fontainebleau,--his gun by his side.
He was suddenly awakened by the barking of a dog which he knew belonged
to the most adroit poacher that levied illicit tribute on the imperial
domain. The dog continued to bark and to look steadily up into the tree.
Murger followed the dog's eyes, but could discover nothing. The poacher
ran up, saying,--"Quick, Monsieur Murger! quick! Give me your gun. Don't
you see it?"
Murger replied,--"See it? See what?"
"Why, a pheasant! a splendid cock! There he is on the top limb!"
The poacher aimed and fired; the pheasant fell at Murger's feet. "Take
the bird and put it in your game-bag, Monsieur Murger, and tell
everybody you killed it."
Murger gratefully accepted the present; and this was the first and only
time that Murger ever bagged a bird.
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