SOBAPSQUA 101 



and got nine lusty, dusky ducks, half as big as 

 geese. 



John Hough, an old man whose memory ran 

 back to the last days of deer-hunting here, told me 

 that the deer, started on Mount Philo, used to run 

 to water at Thompson's Point, as the lay of the 

 land would lead one to guess. 



Here the relentless slayers of the last deer lay in 

 wait for their prey, while, faint and far away, the 

 hound's first notes drifting down the wind-blown 

 crest of Mount Philo, then swelling to a jangle of 

 echoes in the nearer woods, the hunted deer 

 plunged into the lake and the rifle spat out its 

 spiteful charge, or the long smooth-bore belched 

 forth its double charge of ball and buckshot, and 

 the rocky steeps of Sobapsqua, offering life and 

 safety, faded out of the glazing eyes. 



The days of the deer were long ago when the 

 Point was still a half wilderness, and the days of 

 the fox and the wild duck are almost fallen into 

 the past, for the place has become a fashionable 

 resort, and is populous with deluded people who 

 imagine themselves to be camping out. In fact, 

 they live luxuriously in furnished cottages, with 

 carpets on their floors and cushioned chairs, and 

 have dinners of divers courses, with napery of 

 fine linen and service of choice ware. I am told 

 that they not only undress to go to bed at night, 

 but that the women-folk actually change their 



