68 The Partridge Family 



joyed it many a time, when, for some reason, a 

 dog was not available. Indeed, he has gone so 

 far as to purposely leave the dog at home. To 

 the man who loves the woods there is a peculiar 

 charm about this still hunting, for such it truly 

 is. The warm moccasins make not a sound, 

 while one bends to his reading of the great white 

 page — the register of Nature's snug hostelry. 



The little people, furred and feathered, write 

 firmly and plainly. They do not understand the 

 joys of late hours, tobacco, and hard liquor, so 

 the signature of each is beautifully distinct, and 

 anything else that may be added is unquestion- 

 ably true — evidently they are ignorant of a num- 

 ber of popular professions, notably journalism. 

 There, then, is the record for the still hunter to 

 read. 



To find the trim footprints of a bevy, to read 

 their age at a glance, and, when the sign warrants, 

 to steal after them upon silent feet as the lynx 

 steals upon the northern hare, is no bad fun. 

 There is a tenseness about the situation, as one 

 approaches a probable flush, which, to say the 

 least, is exhilarating. It is strange how the 

 hands will grip the gun, and how the breath 

 will check, should a dry leaf rustle, or a harm- 

 less handful of snow fall with a muffled "prup." 

 A glance of reddish brown where an unsuspected 

 squirrel darts across an opening, will make the gun 



