H 



RECREATION, 



I had lost my bearings. No trace of my 

 game was to be seen. Every minute it grew 

 darker, and had it not been for the white- 

 ness of the snow, I should have been com- 

 pelled to postpone my search until the next 

 morning. The thought of it did not strike 

 me favorably. My hunting passion was 

 up and once more I pressed forward. That 

 time success rewarded me. There, near 

 the edge of the precipice, lay the owl, my 

 game, apparently stiff and lifeless. 



However, locating the bird and getting it 

 uere 2 different things. The ground was 

 slippery, and the deep snow treacherous. 

 One false step might hurl me down orer 

 the bluff. What should I do? Was the 

 prize worth the risk? Was it not satisfac- 

 tion enough to know that I had made a 

 good shot? To all these questions there 

 was only the same stubborn answer ; "Get 

 your game !" With the help of saplings 

 and overhanging branches I slowly began 

 the descent, feeling the ground step by step, 

 until, half creeping, half sliding, I came 

 near enough to reach for the coveted prize. 

 Grasping a stout limb with my right hand 

 and bracing my knee against the protruding 

 rock, I succeeded in seizing, with my left 

 hand, the owl's wing. Like lightning the 

 bird swung around and buried his powerful 

 talons in my hand. The attack was so un- 

 expected and the pain so intense, that I 

 came near losing my hold. The tables were 

 turned ; the hunted bird had taken the of- 

 fensive. The yellow, malicious eyes glared 

 at me as big as saucers, and the continual 

 cracking of the sharp beak showed that 



my adversary meant fight. Handicapped in 

 every way I instinctively tried to dash my 

 enemy's head against the rocks, but he 

 cleverly dodged time and again. My po- 

 sition was becoming more and more try- 

 ing, hanging there, so to speak, in midair, 

 struggling with a foe that stuck faster than 

 glue. To regain my strength I tried to 

 pause a few moments in our pass-at-arms, 

 but the owl evidently did not believe in an 

 armistice, and to make the situation clear 

 to me he dealt me with his free wing such 

 a vicious blow across my face, that I be- 

 came totally blinded and dazed for a few 

 moments. 



What might have been the result of the 

 fight had my enemy been in possession of 

 his full strength, would be hard to tell. As 

 it was, his wounds soon began to weaken 

 him, his attacks grew fainter, and dashing 

 him with all my strength against the bould- 

 er, I ended the life he had so bravely de- 

 fended. I could but admire the pluck and 

 gallant fight of the owl, and I wish I could 

 have ended the struggle in a more sports- 

 manlike manner. 



Worn out and bleeding, but exultant and 

 proud, I reached home. The owl, a beauty, 

 measured exactly 4^ feet from tip to tip, 

 and was promptly mounted to remind me 

 in days to come that under certain condi- 

 tions the hunter of "small fry," too, may 

 encounter a thrilling experience which he 

 will remember with as much pride as his 

 brother sportsman who can tell of hair- 

 breadth escapes from mountain lions and 

 grizzlies. 



A MEMORY. 



EDITH M. CHURCH. 



A moon just over the hilltop, 

 Shining so round and bright ; 



Fir trees that look like spectres, 

 In the weird, uncertain light. 



Night shadows upon the waters 

 That stretch away to the shores ; 



Half way 'twixt light and shadows 

 The fitful dip of oars. 



A boat glides through the darkness, 

 Then passes forever from sight, 



Lost in the Past's great ocean, 

 In its deep, mysterious night. 



Will no vision come in the future, 

 As we eagerly press to'ard the mark, 



Of a boat that drifts through the shadows, 

 And is lost again in the dark? 



