a true hunter's moon, by help of whose shin- 

 ing you shall take and spoil the wild creat- 

 ures that walk abroad by night. 



Sport of the rarest, an you have true 

 hunting blood. Without it the night shall 

 not, for you, be filled with music ; indeed, 

 you are like to get nothing but weariness of 

 body, vexation of spirit. Given so much of 

 primal savagery life holds few pleasures to 

 match the glimpses of such a moon. 



See ! Black Daddy is waiting in the cabin 

 door, his burly bigness sharply silhouetted 

 by the red fire -shine inside. He leans 

 heavily on an axe, fresh from the grind- 

 stone, holds a half-dozen unlit splint torches 

 lightly under one arm. A brindled dog, 

 with ridiculous short tail, crouches at his 

 feet, seemingly supine, yet with every sense 

 alert. Outside, the clear moon-rays show a 

 smaller black fellow so dark, his eyes shine 

 fiery-green from under his low lashes. He 

 sits very upright, his bow-legs making queer, 

 bulging shadows on the turf head aside, 

 ears sharply cocked, tail faintly aquiver. 

 Each fibre of him stands at attention. Axe, 

 torches, are to him language visible he has 

 no mind to be left out of the sport they 

 foreshow. 



Black Daddy loves his dogs better, al- 



