GEORGE W. SIMPKINS. 



MY FIRST DEER. 



IF I was ever a good boy my mother never told me of it. 

 Hundreds of times, when I would come home from a 

 nutting expedition with trousers torn by shag-bark 

 hickory, she has said, while viewing the breaches in the 

 breeches, "I declare, Fred, I think you are the worst boy 

 in the world." As this was often repeated when my 

 shoes were ruined by being in mud and water all day, I 

 accepted it as a correct estimate of my rating. But, I ask 

 you, how is a boy to get the first whack at the shellbarks 

 before they drop unless he climbs the trees? How can he 

 wade a stream without wetting his shoes, unless he takes 

 them off? The fact was apparent to me that my mother 

 knew little about a boy's needs, and therefore was not 

 competent to criticise a boy's actions. You've got to shin 

 up a tree to get the nuts if the frost has not opened the 

 shucks and the tree is too tall to use sticks and stones on 

 with good effect. That's a plain statement of fact, and it 

 can't be disputed; but somehow mothers fail to see these 

 things in the proper light. 



"When vacation time comes," said my mother, "if you 

 are a good boy and go to school regularly, don't ruin your 

 shoes in the swamps nor tear your clothes in the nut trees, 

 you may go and visit with Mr. Simpkins, where you will 

 have all the fishing and shooting that you want. He 

 writes that he would like you to spend your vacation with 

 him, and perhaps you may see a deer, for they are plenti- 

 ful near his place. It all depends, however, on th? way 

 you behave between now and then." 



"Who is Mr. Simpkins, mother, and where does he 

 live?" 



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