NOTES OF THE HUNT. 



73 



TINKER 'ENTHUSES.' 



"A chosen bamd, in a mountain land, 

 And a life in the woods for me." 



MY dear Historian, — I hasten to improve the first opportunity to 

 respond to your call for "copy" The text given me " What 

 most impressed you in our Club camp life? " offers material for a 

 whole series of impressions, while I can hope with my rusty pen to 

 touch only upon the 'firstly' and 'lastly,' and drop the subject for want 

 of time and language to do it justice. 



The beauties of Camp Chandler, hidden away beyond the pale 

 of civilization, upon the verge of that placid lake, in which was mir- 

 rored in marvelous distinctness the weird forms and variegated 

 colors of nature, resting in supreme solitude along its shores. This 

 Jirst impressed me, but from within its rough hewn walls I received 

 more impressions. Could they speak, each log and crevice would 

 echo its burden of tales of land and sea — Empire and Republic — 

 enlightened and heathen, from the marts of trade to the halls of 

 pleasure — of syndicates and biblicates, of song and dance, and 

 games of chance, till the whole world might stand aghast at the 

 medley, and wonder what manner of men had found shelter there. 

 These impressions possess me as a mystic dream, always remembered 

 yet never told. 



" On the watch " — breathless-waiting. So still — Hark ! the 

 music of the hounds breaks upon the ear — welcome sweet strains, 

 come nearer ! Listen ! louder — bang ! bang ! bang ! — bang ! — bang ! 

 — bang ! — bang ! Seven of deaths alarms. Louis has got the deer. 

 Home we go ; but, no! Hear again the sweet refrain, "Fly" is on 

 the trail again — lay low — she's coming toward us. Look ! see that 

 wild majestic form with antlers towering high, taking to the 

 water, but alas ! we're discovered and away he bounds into the 

 forest and over the hill till the receding "tongue " of his pursuer 

 dies upon the ear. Louis has lost his deer * • • And the last 

 hunt is over. Good bye Buck and Poverty, Twin and Crotch, may 

 your beautiful shores never reverberate again to the " music " of such 

 a fusilade as the guests of I884 saluted you with. 



Homeward bound — sad for the partings, but filled with happy 

 recollections of our camping days in October. 



hi 



