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150
Literary Lapses
·
Stephen Leacock
126
Notice
that
well-to-do
stockbroker
crawling
about
on
his
stomach
in
the
underbrush,
with
his
spectacles
shining
like
gig-lamps.
What
is
he
doing?
He
is
after
a
cariboo
that
isn't
there.
He
is
"stalking"
it.
With
his
stomach.
Of
course,
away
down
in
his
heart
he
knows
that
the
cariboo
isn't
there
and
never
was;
but
that
man
read
my
pamphlet
and
went
crazy.
He
can't
help
it:
he's
GOT
to
stalk
something.
Mark
him
as
he
crawls
along;
see
him
crawl
through
a
thimbleberry
bush
(very
quietly
so
that
the
cariboo
won't
hear
the
noise
of
the
prickles
going
into
him),
then
through
a
bee's
nest,
gently
and
slowly,
so
that
the
cariboo
will
not
take
fright
when
the
bees
are
stinging
him.
Sheer
woodcraft!
Yes,
mark
him.
Mark
him
any
way
you
like.
Go
up
behind
him
and
paint
a
blue
cross
on
the
seat
of
his
pants
as
he
crawls.
He'll
never
notice.
He
thinks
he's
a
hunting
dog.
Yet
this
is
the
man
who
laughs
at
his
little
son
of
ten
for
crawling
round
under
the
dining-room
table
with
a
mat
over
his
shoulders,
and
pretending
to
be
a
bear.
Now
see
these
other
men
in
camp.
Someone
has
told
them--I
think
I
first
started
the
idea
in
my
pamphlet--that
the
thing
is
to
sleep
on
a
pile
of
hemlock
branches.
I
think
I
told
them
to
listen
to
the
wind
sowing
(you
know
the
word
I
mean),
sowing
and
crooning
in
the
giant
pines.
So
there
they
are
upside-down,
doubled
up
on
a
couch
of
green
spikes
that
would
have
killed
St.
Sebastian.
They
stare
up
at
the
sky
with
blood-shot,
restless
eyes,
waiting
for
the
crooning
to
begin.
And
there
isn't
a
sow
in
sight.
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