EDITORS CORNER. 



405 



Prominent features of June Recreation 

 will be, " The Puget Sound Salmon," by 

 E. L. Kellogg; "Tiger Shooting in In- 

 dia," Lieut. J. P. Webster, of the British 

 Army; " The Pompano of the Indian Riv- 

 er," Mrs. Julia Wells; " Ducks and 

 Quails in Florida," H. B. Allen; " Queer 

 Patients and Queer Physicians," Dr. James 

 Weir, Jr., etc. There will be the usual lib- 

 eral supply of photographic reproductions, 

 original drawings, poems, notes from the 

 game fields and the fishing grounds, dis- 

 cussions on guns, ammunition, etc. 



A reader of Recreation calls my atten- 

 tion to the fact that Recreation gun club, 

 of Lexington, Va., announces its intention 

 to hold pigeon and rifle shoots. I under- 

 stand this expression, on the part of the 

 Secretary of the club, refers to clay pigeons, 

 and not to live birds. Recreation is radi- 

 cally and unalterably opposed to shooting 

 live pigeons, from the trap, and does not 

 wish to be understood as sanctioning such 

 alleged sport, in any instance. 



There is a Post-office in Wyoming called 

 " Four Bear." This name doubtless has a 

 significance of some kind, and it is possible 

 that a tale hangs thereby. Bears are not 

 supposed to have tails, but possibly these 

 4, combined, may have a good one, and I 

 should like to know the particulars. 



Will not Colonel Pickett, who lives near 

 Four Bear, kindly tell the readers of Rec- 

 reation what he knows about the origin 

 of this name? 



Traveler (in country town) — What's the 

 matter with the people of this place? Is 

 there some sort of an epidemic raging here? 

 I see that nearly everyone has wads of cot- 

 ton stuffed into his ears. 



Native — No, there ain't nothin' the mat- 

 ter with us specially. This is our brass 

 band's regular night for practisin'. — Stray 

 Stories. 



There are still some unfortunate sports- 

 men who are not readers of Recreation. 

 If you know any such send in their names, 

 and greatly oblige them and 



The Editor. 



Rusty Bill— Lady, could you let me have 

 an old pair of pants? 



Mrs. Brown— I am afraid these are too 

 large around the waist for you. 



Rusty— Well, couldn't you give me a 

 breakfast that would make 'em fit?— Truth. 



A " Vaux " canoe, made by J. H. Rush- 

 ton, retail price $37-50, for 50 yearly sub- 

 scriptions to Recreation. Who will be 

 the first to earn it? 



HOGS. 



G. C. 



The woodland ways beguiled my feet 



When but a little child; 

 I moved among them like a bird, 



As wayward and as wild. 

 Even yet the city's crowded streets, 



Its blocks of brick and stone, 

 Are tenantless and drear to me, 



I thread the throngs alone. 



The Sabbath's solemn-tolling bell 



Not music is to me; 

 Above its clang swells on my ear 



The anthem of the sea. 

 I hear Katahdin's moaning pines 



And Tampa's sighing palms; 

 I'm midst wild Athabaskan storms 



Or Carribean calms. 



In through my window, open flung, 



The city's tumult pours, 

 I hear far Moosehead's plashing waves, 



And dip of quiet oars. 

 Men haste and loiter, come and go, 



I reck not all they do; 

 For lo, on Puget's tranquil breast 



I launch my bark canoe. 

 * * * 



Alas, the hungry river drowns 



The tiny rippling stream, 

 As harsh reality crowds out 



A poet's idle dream. 

 Vanished the camp beside the lake, 



Vanished the blazing logs, 

 I turn from fancy's roasted trout 



To roasting human 1 ogs. 



The rooters in the farmer's fields 



Are not the only swine; 

 You'll meet them on the streams and lakes 



Wielding the hook and line; 

 You'll find them hot in chase of game, 



From elephants to frogs, 

 Day after day, year after year 



The same insatiate hogs. 



The manly sportsman's simple needs 



Not hard the task to fill, 

 And few his victims; but the hog 



Knows but the greed to kill. 

 The hunter kills — then roasts — his meat, 



And on such fare will thrive; 

 But when he handles human swine 



Must roast his game alive. 



The commander of the ironclad peered 

 through the porthole at the enemy and then 

 turned to the gunners. 



" Give him grape and canister! " he 

 shouted, hoarsely, grinding his teeth. 

 " Give him grape, anyhow! Perchance we 

 shall lodge a seed in his appendix vermi- 

 formis! " 



And the horrible carnage went on. — New 

 York World. 



