354 



RECREA TION. 



Where was my " humane feeling," my pride 

 of yesterday when I rescued the tortured 

 puppy from his youthful tormentors? Were 

 all my attributes of civilized man dormant? 

 Was I again a barbaric cave-dweller, sav- 

 age, implacable, reduced in a moment to 

 the infancy of all mankind? 



Scarce a day passes that my eyes do not 

 seek the walls of my room, in pleasant con- 

 templation of those admirable pictures by 

 A. B. Frost. Every detail gratifies my 

 hunter's eye and recalls an incident of my 

 own experience. Truly they are a pleasure 

 to see! Yet does not each one depict an 

 actual, premeditated, heartless murder? 



A self-justification is sought, after such 

 reflections, and nothing presents itself 



which is not forced and feeble. The bibli- 

 cal injunction, the falling back on my in- 

 stinct as a carnivorous animal, or any other 

 subterfuge does not prevent a certain mor- 

 tification at a calm facing of the facts. I 

 sometimes wonder what the position of such 

 men as Roosevelt, Rainsford, and Van 

 Dyke is, on this matter. 



Is the pleasure in the chase, the desire 

 to kill, the hunting instinct consistent in 

 civilized man with his other mental growth? 

 Is it a barbaric relic decreasing as the cen- 

 turies roll on? Or is it ours for all eter- 

 nity, as a natural endowment? Can we 

 agree to gratify an inhuman instinct and to 

 justify a pleasure in it, to our moral sense? 

 Quien sabe? 



A LOON CHASE IN A CANOE. 



W. S. BATES. 



My friend and I camped, for some weeks, 

 on the shore of Island lake, in Northern 

 Michigan. It was an ideal camping ground. 

 Before us lay the beautiful lake, with its 

 wooded islets; and beyond it the vast hard- 

 wood forest. On a ridge, covered with red 

 pine, and carpeted with pine needles, was 

 our camp. Behind us ran a broad ravine, 

 full of ferns and tamarack; while beyond 

 that was the forest again, and Bass lake, 

 about Y\ of a mile from us. A long shallow 

 bay of this lake was called the " glue pot," 

 because of the slimy mud of its bottom. 

 There, after catching a mess of black bass, 

 the night before, I had left our bucktail 

 canoe, Tottie. 



After breakfast, one morning, just as 

 Pipes had finished washing the dishes, he 

 proposed we should go to the " glue pot " 

 and chase loons. 



" All right," I said, " come on." 



" Shall I take my gun? " 

 'Yes; to be sure. We may run across 

 the confounded lynx that stole our cheese." 



A lynx does not ordinarily care about 

 cheese, so far as I know; but something 

 had stolen a cheese from us a few days be- 

 fore. The night after the theft, a lynx be- 

 gan to howl, in a way that suggested a 

 guilty conscience and a disordered stom- 

 ach. We therefore adjudged him guilty, 

 on his own confession, as it were. 



But we reached the " glue pot " without 

 seeing the lynx, and pushed off in Tottie. 

 We had reached the point, when we espied 

 a long narrow head moving rapidly over 

 the water, ioo yards or so in front of us. 



It was a young deer. Away we paddled 

 after it; but though the deer did not in- 

 crease his speed, he reached the shore first. 

 There he stopped and looked around, and 

 we saw he was but a half grown fawn. 



Landing on the point, we stole across to 

 look for the loons. There they were, 3 of 

 them, about the middle of the lake. Bang! 

 went my little 22 Marlin, and the loons dis- 

 appeared in a single splash of water. To 

 jump in Tottie and paddle out in the lake, 

 was the work of a moment. There we 

 rested, watching for the loons to come up. 

 Two rose quietly on one side of the boat, 

 and sat low in the water. The single bird 

 sat well up and scolded like a fish wife. 

 Knowing the latter was the old cock, we 

 went for him. The 2 got out of range, 

 while our backs were turned; and when 

 they were safe, the old cock dove again. 

 So it went on, in sequence. The loon would 

 rise, and as we paddled toward him, dive 

 again. Then we would stop, and watch for 

 his next appearance. 



After about 2 hours of this performance 

 the loon began to get tired. He did not 

 stay under so long, and he came up closer 

 to us. At last he came up about 25 yards 

 away. Pipes threw up his gun, but it 

 missed fire. Then my Marlin spoke. This 

 time the bird was not quick enough, and 

 the bullet passed through his head. We 

 gathered in, 9^2 pounds of dead loon, and 

 paddled for camp. 



" That beats anything in the way of sport 

 I ever saw," said Pipes, after dinner, as he 

 watched me wash the dishes. 



