454 



RECREA TION. 



ally, regarding the flight. I saw a man 

 coming from the country, the same day, 

 who said he saw some of them. 



" In the early part of September I was 

 hunting prairie chickens when I came 

 across a farmer who told me he had seen a 

 flock of pigeons a few days before. This 

 was on the North shore of lake Butte des 

 Morte. A. Fugelberg." 



* * * 



The search has but begun. What became 

 of the few millions of pigeons left after the 

 ruthless demolition of their last great roost, 

 in the Indian Territory? The flock, if one 

 remained, of course returned, for the win- 

 ter, to its Central American home. With 

 the instinct of knowing when a territory 

 had become uninhabitable it decided to re- 

 turn no more to the United States. What 

 then became of it? Is it not now annually 

 flying Southward, and making its great 

 roosts in the vast wild region forming the 

 central part of South America and having 

 for its food the nuts and berries of the vege- 

 tation lying between the Andes and the 

 peopled area along the Atlantic coast? 

 This is a portion of the problem yet un- 

 solved. It is a matter of extreme difficulty 

 to reach, by mail, or to find in any way, in- 



telligent observers in any portion of the 

 region over which, in theory, the passenger 

 pigeon may now be flying. 



It is on one point that information is earn- 

 estly desired. There must be, among the 

 thousands of readers of Recreation some 

 men who have greater facilities than I for 

 ascertaining what may be the natural facts 

 as to the interior of South America. As- 

 suredly the search should be maintained. 

 The wild pigeon is a thing of delightful 

 memory to many of the living, and has 

 become, and will remain, not merely in 

 natural history, but in song and story, 

 throughout all the great region it once 

 traversed, a creature of importance. 



If an excuse be needed for the length of 

 this article it is that its substance must ap- 

 peal to all who remember the country as 

 it was; who miss the note of the flail, or 

 the scythe-stone, and, above all, the over- 

 head thunder and flutter of wings, in the 

 spring time and in the autumn. 



What is here told is truth, not guesswork. 

 It is the result of some years of inquiry, 

 with all the enthusiasm of a boy who once 

 killed 14 wild pigeons at one shot, but who 

 would to-day make an effort to preserve the 

 life of even on'e of these romantic and mys- 

 terious birds. 



HOG KILLIN'. 



W. H. NELSON. 



Come over, Bill, t' our house; 



We're goin' to kill the hogs. 

 Pap's heatin' of the worter now, 



On a big fire o' logs. 

 He's got the hogs'ed tilted down 



To scald 'em in, you see; 

 And gamblun' sticks all made and piled 



'Long side the apple tree. 



Mam's flyin' round the kitchen like 



A kitten in a fit, 

 A'cookin' cakes and bakin' bread, 



And scoldin' fit to split. 

 There's mince pies in the pantry, 



And cookies in the churn, 

 And there'll be swads o' gravy, 'less 



She ups and lets it burn. 



Me 'n' you '11 be the company; 



We'll jist be everywhere; 

 We'll watch 'em shoot 'nd stick the hogs 



'N' scald, 'n' yank the hair, 

 'N' Pap 'n' Jone, 'n' Uncle Bill, 



'LI hang 'em high 'n' dry, 

 'N' rip 'em down, 'n' 'en, by jing, 



You'll see the insides fly. 



We'll steal the bladders, me 'n' you, 



'N' blow 'em with a quill, 

 'N' kick 'em 'round, 'n' belt the gals, 



'N' laugh jist fit to kill. 

 We'll cut off all the tails, 'y gum 



'N' roast 'em on the coals, 

 'N' stuff till we jist purt' nigh bust 



'Th pies, 'n' cakes, 'n' rolls. 



We'll set up late 'n' watch 'em grind 



The hunks o' sassage meat, 

 'N' split 'n' scrape the heads, 'n' see 



Mam trim 'n' clean the feet. 

 So, come fer sure to-morrer, bright 



'N' early fer the fun; 

 'N' stay all night, V sleep 'ith me 



When butcherin' day is done. 



