A New Year's Deer Hunt. 



A few years make great changes 

 in any section of a country, but 

 especially so when it happens to 

 be located in a progressive west- 

 ern state, like Iowa. This idea 

 was never more forcibly presented 

 to me than on a recent flying trip 

 through the northern part of the 

 above named state. A rich agri- 

 cultural country, one of the finest 

 under the sun farms, orchards, 

 and homes where thirty years ago 

 I hunted and trapped. As our 

 train whirled us through this 

 lovely pastoral region on an ideal 

 September day, I closed my eyes 

 in dreamy meditation and lived 

 it all over again. 



It was New Year's eve a cold, 

 still night and as the sun disappeared behind the tree tops 

 we hurried our preparations for the night. A big pile of 

 dry limbs were cut and carried in, fresh snow piled up around 

 the bottom of the tent, the flap buttoned tight, and we were 

 ready for the night. Lighting the grease dip, we gathered 

 around the red-hot stove, and told stories until time to re- 

 tire. While preparing for bed, a pack of wolves across the 

 creek treated us to a New Year's eve concert, but it did 

 not keep us awake, and we were soon in dreamland, living 

 over again the boyhood New Year's days in the old home. 

 It was daylight when I awoke, and unfastening the tent, I 

 looked out. A light snow had fallen during the night and 

 it was clear, cold, and calm ; an ideal New Year's morn. I 

 had planned a deer hunt for the day, and as soon as breakfast 



[95] 



Winter Morning Scene. 



