irn tbe moo6s witb tbe Bow 



" ez fur squ'ls, they 's my meat jes w'en- 

 ever I wanted 'em ! " By the time we had 

 reached the trail where he was to dump 

 me, Simpson Jarvis's place being over a 

 hill not practicable for a wagon, I was well- 

 nigh convinced that what I knew about 

 archery had been forgotten by Mr. Shamly, 

 and I bade him good-by on the verge of 

 envy. 



No sooner was I afoot and alone once 

 more than I heard some bird twitterings^ 

 and above all one welcome note. Almost 

 immediately I was in pursuit of a specimen, 

 a blue grosbeak, and the rattling of the 

 Shamly vehicle died away in the distance 

 while I clambered over rocks and bestrode 

 bushes to keep the bird in sight until I 

 could get a shot at it. In my notes the 

 whole grosbeak family would be complete 

 if I should get this one. Your bird-stu- 

 dent has his cupidities, and your archer 

 backs them with his tackle. This mixing 

 of ornithology with bow-shooting, however, 

 has its limitations. If I had borne a gun 

 the blue grosbeak would have been mine. 

 As it was I shot five or six shots and did 

 214 



