CHAPTER Vin 

 A Shooting Match 



AMONG my memories of boyhood's days on the 

 ^ farm are pigeon-holed away many stories by 

 mighty hunters I have known, pure fiction, mostly, 

 I presume, and I recall that I used to draw closer 

 to the kitchen stove as I listened to pioneers tell 

 thrilling stories of wolves, b'ar, catamounts and 

 other wild and ferocious beasts that roamed loose 

 in this domain when our part of the world was 

 young. 



B'ars and wolves had all departed from about 

 the banks of Avon and Thames long before my 

 day, but I was in at the killing or, at least, I saw 

 the last deer and wildcat shot or captured in my 

 native township. 



My way to the schoolhouse on the banks of 

 Avon, where my young ideas were encouraged to 

 expand, lay through a small cedar swamp and, 

 in this swamp, I remember, a neighbour had set 

 traps for mink and captured a wildcat. He 

 brought his prize over to our house to exhibit it 

 and I peered at it from behind my mother's skirts. 

 Ever after, in passing through that swamp on the 

 old corduroy road of cedar logs, I used to cast 

 furtive glances over my shoulder and all about. 



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