1 



266 BUSH WANDEKINGS. 



Cease we our chronicles, and now we pause, 

 Though not for want of matter ; but 'tis time. 



It is now some years since I left my home " a vagabond 

 to be," and during that period have wandered over many 

 lands, my gun a,nd fishing-rod my only companions — a 

 true citizen of the world. 



In the prime of years, in the full flush of youth and 

 strength, such a life offers charms of wild independence, 

 which can never be realized by that man who is tied to 

 one spot ; no matter with what comforts he may be 

 surrounded, or what sport he may enjoy, ready made to 

 hand. But as years creep on, and a man begins to feel 

 that " the old gentleman with the scythe" is pressing 

 hard upon his heels, his enthusiasm will in a measure 

 abate ; and the more he has buffeted with the rude waves 

 of the world, the greater will be his desire to east anchor 

 in some quiet haven, which he may regard as a permanent 

 home in declining years. For how truly has Sam Slick 

 described the dark side of the wanderer's life in the fol- 

 lowing words : " Here to-day, gone to-morrow ; to know 

 folks but to forget them ; to love folks but to part with 

 them ; to come without pleasure, to go without pain ; 

 and at last, for a last will come to every story, still no 

 home." Never, perhaps, was the history of a life written 

 in so short a sentence. 



Sterne wisely remarks : " Matter grows under our 

 hands ; let no man say, come, I will write a duodecimo," 

 This must be my excuse if my wanderings have led the 

 reader too far. My fitness for the task I have under- 



