172 WOODLAND IDYLS. 



the curiosity of a young marmot forever sat- 

 isfied. 



The Gods of chance were fickle. The den of 

 the youngster had another opening in the side of 

 a ditch. Out of it he went and down the drain, 

 the crest of his back just visible as he ambled 

 slowly away. Another one came out on the slope 

 and again I missed. That collection of brushes 

 from the tips of their tails will, I fear, not be 

 difficult to count at the season's end. 



Just then the farm boy came over with my 

 mail. He took a longer shot than I and bagged 

 his game. With my gun, too ! So it is not the 

 weapon but the personal equation which is at 

 fault. No wonder ! He says he has a rifle some- 

 what like mine which he has shot more than 

 three thousand times. Practice, patience, pa- 

 tience, practice, the man behind the gun, as else- 

 where, must ever have would he be successful. 



Just at noontime J. Pluvius began to get busy. 

 All the morning had he been preparing for an 

 hour's work. Like a Mexican is he these sum- 

 mer months, often promising much for to-day or 

 to-morrow but doing little. How the foliage of 

 grass and tree and herb rejoiced in his labor, so 

 long deferred. Sitting in the door of my tent 

 I cooked my dinner, using an old stove top on 

 which to place my fire so that it would not 

 spread into my shelter. For an hour after din- 

 ner I fished in the pool within fifty yards of the 



