A Rabbit Hunt on the Prairie. 



After finishing our lunch, we loaf around in the warm Oc- 

 tober sun and talk over the hits and misses of the morning. 

 until :! o'clock, when we hitch up and start across the prairie 

 for home. As we jog along towards the little cottage on the 

 lake where I have made my home during my two weeks' vaca- 

 tion, a feeling of sadness creeps over me. for I cannot help 

 reading the signs that are all around and about me. The haze 

 of Indian summer, the shaggy tops of the golden-rod, the little 

 white bunches of gum on the resin-weed, and the sharp frosty 

 nights and mornings, all tell the tale. It is the last dying effort 

 of summer. Winter will soon be with us and spread her mantle 

 of white over these brown prairies, and another long year must 

 roll around, with its humdrum life and hard work, before I can 

 again visit this charmed spot and enjoy the health-giving 

 sports of lake and stubble. Many years have passed since that 

 day's rabbit hunt: but never do the closing days of October 

 roll around without my recalling all the incidents of that novel 

 hunt. 



Sports Afield. 



