Wild Game Calling the Hunter 



WHILE "the frost is on the pumpkin and the fodder's in 

 the shock," while the apples are ripening, the potatoes 

 being dug, the winter's supply of nuts being gathered 

 and every out-o'-doors man in Minnesota is going about with 

 a smile on his lips and a song in his heart, the season for 

 real hunting is drawing near, and from now until December 

 ], there will be sufficient sport to make the blood of every 

 Nimrod tingle with the chase. 



Alluring Cry of the Wild Birds, a Siren Call to Hunters. 



While, ordinarily, the laws of Minnesota are hedged about 

 with multitudinous "Thou-shalt-nots," and shooting is limited 

 to certain seasons, the fall of the year is the time when every 

 hunter looks lingeringly toward the horizon, strains his sense 

 of hearing to catch the call of the wild fowl and gazes affec- 

 tionately at the shotgun swung on the antlers over the door 

 or put away in its case in the closet. The cry of a little flock 

 of ducks overhead will distract the mind of the man at the 

 city desk till he can't tell a column of figures from a bunch 

 of decoys or a pencil from a gun. The sight of a hunter 

 coming in from the fields with a bag of prairie chickens will 

 attract more attention than a Populist rally, and the picture 

 of a bird dog more comment than a life-sized portrait of the 

 President. 



"Breathes there a man with soul so dead, 

 Who never to himself has said 

 'I'm goin' huntin'.' " 



If there be such a man, he should reform. If he lives in 

 Minnesota, it's a 10 to 1 shot that he eats macaroons at lunch 

 and says "Fudge!" and "Gosh!" when he's angry. Because, 

 with all the variety of game birds and animals abounding in 

 this state, surely no one with red blood in his veins and any 

 time to spare, could resist the temptation to get out some 



