OH, SHOOT! 



of a sportsman, to show how impossible it is to 

 prevent him from having a good time, no 

 matter how his luck breaks, and, in a gen- 

 eral way, to answer the question, "Why is a 

 hunter?" 



There is no satisfactory answer to that 

 query; hunters are merely born that way. 

 Something in their blood manifests itself in 

 regular accord with the signs of the zodiac. 

 In my case, for instance, when autumn brings 

 the open season, I suffer a complete and baf- 

 fling change of disposition. I am no longer the 

 splendid, upright citizen whose Christian vir- 

 tues are a joy to his neighbors and an inspira- 

 tion to the youth of his community. No. I 

 grow furtive and restless; honest toil irks me. 

 I begin to chase sparrows and point meadow 

 larks and bark at rabbit tracks. I fall ill 

 and manifest alarming symptoms which de- 

 mand change of climate and surcease from 

 the grinding routine. I sigh and complain. I 

 moan in my sleep and my appetite flags. I 

 allow myself to be discovered dejectedly fond- 

 ling a favorite fowling piece or staring, with 

 the drooping eyes of a Saint Bernard, at some 

 moth-eaten example of taxidermic atrocity. 

 The only book that stirs my languid soul is 



