206 RECREATION. 



some alders, I pressed the trigger. I started to investigate. I have an idea 

 could not see the result of my shot, that the old bird and several blue- 

 but had an intuitive feeling that I had jays were having a battle of words, if 

 not missed, and, listening, I heard not of blows, when my snap shot 

 the bird crashing through the brush, suddenly terminated the row. 

 Calling to William, we both spent Returning again to the productive 

 some time before we found the bird, willow swales, we secured a few more 

 for the brush was almost impenetra- birds, and then went back to the 

 ble. William had taken the strange great farmhouse. The next morning 

 noises made by the pheasant for the we flagged the train and returned to 

 bleating of a lamb, and, believing the the hot and dusty city, 

 jays were worrying a stray, he 



THE OTHER KIND. 

 Brad L. Hubert. 



From the altar in a little brown church, 



The pastor spoke, on a bright summer day, 

 While the birds sang from the sweet-scented 

 birch 



With its wide-spreading limbs o'er the 

 way . 

 " There is joy in heaven this day," he said, 



" Angels are singing a grand jubilee." 

 No birds, no flowers, no green mossy bed? 



That would not be heaven to me. 



As slowly he came down the long church- 

 aisle, 



He said, as he languidly grasped my hand, 

 And over his face played a feeble smile, 



" There is joy this day in the heavenly 

 land ; 

 Praises are wafted to the great white throne ; 



Angels are singing by the jasper sea." 

 With n© forest retreat, singing alone ? 



That would not be heaven to me. 



I wandered off, o'er the gay green field, 



Where the bright sun chased the shadows 

 away ; 

 Where all nature seemed vieing to yield 



Endless praise on this calm Sabbath day. 

 I wended my way through the shady woods, 



Where birds were singing from each leafy 

 tree, 

 And thought (all have heterogeneous moods), 



" This is more like heaven to me." 



I sat by the brook with moss-covered banks 



And mused, as it blithely rippled along : 

 " It speaks the Maker a burden of thanks, 



In its musical, murmuring song." 

 As I stopped to pluck the sweet-scented 

 flowers 



That grew in beauty by the way, 

 I whispered : " This day, this day, is ours, 



And this would be heaven to me." 



