AN IDYL OF LITTLE RIVER 



By John B. Thompson 



So again tonight I'm thinking, 

 Days of youth, of dog and gun, 



Days of sport in times now olden, 

 Long before life's span was run. 

 — Whipple. 



EEDLESS of the storm, the little, brown, weather- 

 beaten native reposed quietly on his pallet of 

 dirty comforts. Calling to him several times, 

 he gave me no answer. I should have known better than 

 to have tried to draw the attention of a Little Biver 

 native to the rocking of the house. To him it was the 

 sweetest of slumber songs — to me it was an unparalleled 

 wind, threatening each instant to wrench the unstable 

 structure from its flirnsy, stilt-like foundation of cypress. 

 Anew came a fierce booming gust of wind, apparently 

 more formidable than any of its predecessors. The 

 shack rattled, pitched, then seemingly ashamed of its 

 yielding that much to the elements, it dropped back 

 with a soggy thud on its tottering piling, and rested in 

 its original position. , ._ 



