120 Old Bays on the Farm 



EVEEY BOY WOULD BE A MIGHTY HUNTER 



I had dreams of being a mighty hunter some day 

 — most boys have. You will remember that de- 

 lightful little poem by the inimitable Robert Louis 

 Stevenson, ''The Land of Story Books." He 

 voices the ambition of most boys in this direction. 



But there was only small game in the forests 

 about our neighbourhood. I remember there were 

 golden plovers in innumerable numbers at certain 

 seasons, and many wild pigeons in the woods. 

 There were, of course, numberless 'coons, foxes, 

 rabbits and squirrels, and I recall that while cut- 

 ting wood in the bush my father captured a colony 

 of flying squirrels. I tried to make pets of the 

 little things but they proved very elusive and 

 eventually escaped. 



THE OLD-TIME SHOOTING MATCH 



Shooting matches were of annual occurrence in 

 most country districts, indeed, they were fixed fes- 

 tivals in the calendar of social events. 'Long 

 about October, when the frost is on the fodder and 

 pumpkin's in the pie, would be the festal season. 

 Then the cotton-tail was fat from frequent visits 

 to turnip patches, then the 'coon was sleek and 

 oily as a result of nocturnal rambles in the farm- 

 er's cornfield; then the frolicsome squirrel was 

 most ubiquitous. 



Then, too, as the poet sings: **A fellow was 



