On Landseer's "Monarch of the Glen"

In the glen, my dad the head stag stands in one of the only un-singed patches of grass left. He has just led the rest of us back safely from the area of the wildfire and is standing, tired but triumphant, at the head of a line of deer who followed him to safety. There is still smoke in the air behind us. My mother rushes from the end of the line and ushers us away quickly to see if we can find any thing left for us to eat. We search for a long time before the stamp of a hoof from over by a dried up stream makes us run over to a ledge. I gasp. A whole field of berries and plenty of shelter, just waiting for us to move in. We gallop down and I hope we'll be living here for a long time yet.