Little Partner. 



vividly than all others. The first of these is a camp scene on 

 Waterford Lake in the state of Pennsylvania. There are two 

 white tents standing on a little rise of ground under the big 

 shady beeches. In front of the larger tent there is burning a 

 bright, cheery camp fire, and, gathered around it, I see the 

 happy faces of friends. This was the last long trip that Little 

 Partner ever took with me, and our last outing under canvas. 

 The next is a bright autumn afternoon in northern Iowa that 

 long-to-be-remembered day when we took our last hunt to- 

 gether in the Lime Creek woods. This was the time of year, 

 above all others, when we enjoyed roaming the woods with 

 rifle or camera picking up an occasional squirrel or catching a 

 pretty bit of landscape now and then on the gelatine-coated 

 plate. 



We never had any family jars over this matter of taking a 

 day off, for Little Partner entered into the pastime of Diana 

 with as much zeal as I did. In truth, she was a far better shot 

 with the rifle than I ever expect to be. So, when I pushed 

 back from the dinner table on this bright September day and 

 proposed a tramp up creek, the proposition met with a hearty 

 response from the other side of the table. I hurried through 

 with the work of the office, and was soon back home. Little 

 Partner was dressed for the trip, had everything ready, and was 

 waiting for me at the door. I got into my shooting togs in a 

 jiffy and we were off. A short down-hill walk of ten min- 

 utes, and we were on the creek bank. I was carrying the 

 camera, and, just as I stepped onto the foot bridge, I cnanced 

 to glance up-creek and stood enraptured with the beauty of 

 the scene. The winding stream, with its willow-fringed shores, 

 the distant hills and beautiful clouds overhead, made up such 

 a pretty picture for the sensitive plate that I could not pass it 

 by. Folding up the camera, we crossed the creek and were 

 soon on our old hunting ground. The magic touch of Jack Frost 

 had wrought wonders on the garb of hill and dale since our 

 last visit. Then all was summer green, while now the autumn 



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