In 



CHAPTER II. 



LET'S AWAY TO THE PRAIIUES. 



Art sick of the city's rush and strife, 

 And the endless chafe of a business life, 

 The crush and the roar of the busy street, 

 The jar of pavement, and stifling heat, 

 The endless toiling for dear-bought gain. 

 The wearying tension of nerve and brain ? 

 Then cast all from you, and hie away 

 For a glorious, restful holiday. 



The gun hangs long on the lonely wall ; 



The tackle is hid 'neath a dusty pall ; 



The reel has forgotten the song it sings ; 



The flies would fain stretch their deadly wings ; 



The basket can boast no tempting spread, 



And the flask is cold and its spirits fled. 



Man ! is it right such things should be ? 



Why clank your chain when you might be free ? 



The breeze sighs soft with a breath divine, 



And whispers a welcome from the pine ; 



The rocks re-echo the syren calls 



Of a thousand rushing, foaming falls ; 



The game trout leaps in the shadowed pool ; 



The deer drinks long of the water cool ; 



And moose and caribou safely stray, 



For your rod and rifle are far away. 



Leave then, the desk, and ease the strain ; 

 Leave the noisy machinery and the doubtful gain. 

 The breath of the woods gives strength anew, 

 And tunes the nerves till they answer true 

 Seek nature's shrine that she may bless, 

 And lose your care in the wilderness ; 

 For the grouse is sounding his rallying drum, 

 And the voice of forest and stream says " come ! " 



T is the first of June, the happiest month of the year 

 to the lovers of birds. The lilacs and apple-trees 

 are in full blossom, sending forth a delicious per- 

 fume which comes through the open windows as I 

 sit at supper, the last I shall have at home for many 

 days. Several robins are singing their evening song 

 before going to rest, and the nighthawk's screech can be heard 



