20 WILD FOWL SHOOTING. 
twelve summers, a laughing, romping, rosy-cheeked lad, 
overflowing with animal spirits, his bright, blue eyes 
and smiling face an ever welcome sight to his compan- 
ions. Whistling and singing all the livelong day. 
His father, distinguished for his eminent legal abilities, 
forgot all business cares, and ever indulgent, became a 
boy again when with his romping son. Brothers and 
sisters had he. His home stood on the hillside, and a 
happy one it was, made so by fraternal and filial love. 
That this boy should learn to love field sports, the dog 
and gun, is not a matter of surprise, as his father was 
passionately fond of them. 
Wesee him in the month of June, that month of rosi- 
est hue, when all nature is dressed in holiday attire, 
roaming through field and meadow, over hills and vyal- 
leys ; or, dreamily sitting on the bank of the murmur- 
ing brook, his wandering thoughts far away, as he list- 
ens to the carol of bright plumaged birds, his nostrils 
filled with the delicate odor of blossoming flowers, his 
eyes entranced by the surpassing beauty of Nature every- 
where around him, in the heavens above, in the earth 
below. 
The air, laden with the perfume of flowers, 
Delights his senses ; he notes not the hours. 
Bright butter-cups, daisies. sweet violets, 
Lure him on, and he forgets 
School, playmates, joys, disappointment, 
And rambles amid Nature in sweet content. 
He hears strange sounds. There in his sight, 
A mottled bird calls to him, ‘‘ Bob White,’’ ‘‘ Bob White,’’ 
‘** Bob White,’’ he says, whistling from his post, 
Then looks at the boy, as if he were lost, 
And wonders what he is doing here alone, 
So young, so small, so far from home. 
“*©oo—Coo—” is uttered by the turtle dove, 
As she mourntully calls her truant love, 
Then flying and alighting on the topmost limb, 
Silently looks down and watches him. 
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