68 LETTERS EROM THE BACKWOODS. 



think this very cruel, and congratulate themselves on 

 their kinder natures. I have seen such people, and 

 heard them expend whole sentences of sentimentality 

 upon the hardheartedness that could take the life of 

 such an innocent creature, who very coolly wrung 

 the necks of chickens every night for their breakfast, 

 and devoured with great gusto the shoulder of a lamb 

 for dinner. They slay without remorse the most 

 harmless, trusting creatures that haunt their meadows, 

 or sport upon their lawns, and take food from their 

 hands, and yet are shocked at the idea of killing a 

 deer or shooting a wild pigeon. They kill God's 

 creatures, not from necessity, but to gratify their 

 palates and minister to their luxurious tastes. But 

 if any one supposes we shot this noble doe for sport, 

 he must havo a very vague idea of the toils we had 

 endured that day, or of our keen appetites. A man 

 of great sentimentality might eat boiled eggs and 

 toast with his coffee for breakfast, rather than sanc- 

 tion the death of an animal by partaking of flesh. I 

 say he might do it, though I have never seen an in- 

 stance of such great self-denial; but I doubt whether, 

 if he were a day's journey from a human habitation, 

 hungry and tired, with the prospect of nothing but a 

 piece of salt pork, toasted on the end of a stick for 

 supper and breakfast, he would hesitate to eat a veni- 

 son steak. But I like to have forgotten. The pork, too, 

 was the flesh of an animal, and it would be difiicult 

 to convince a hog that he had not as good a right to 

 life as a deer. At all events, we enjoyed the venison, 

 though perhaps the sentimentalist might say we wero 



