92 



RECREATION. 



became a flycatcher and the little fellow 

 lived like a prince. He soon learned from 

 what source his food came, and had a cun- 

 ning fashion of hopping down on the end 

 of a penholder, held in a pen rack, and wait- 

 ing for someone to feed him. He had no 

 favorites, but would sit contentedly on any- 

 one's hand. 



He greatly enjoyed sun baths. The mite 

 would take his position in the center of a 

 flood of sunshine and revel in it, pecking 

 at unlucky flies, arranging his feathers, and 

 stretching his wings. His enforced visit 

 had been noted by the local papers, and 

 many ladies and children called daily to see 

 him and pay him homage. Perched on 

 someone's fingers he would be taken to va- 

 rious windows, where flies were bumping 

 their heads in vain efforts to get out. These 

 flies were doomed. The little fellow never 

 missed them. 



As dusk approached, Tim would hop 



along his home, a great standing desk, jump 

 up on the pen rack, from there to the gas 

 jet, and then on to the bracket that supports 

 the globe. There, hidden, with the excep- 

 tion of his tail, he would tuck his head un- 

 der his wing, and bid the world goodnight. 

 Morning found him bright and hungry, and 

 his appetite surprised us. His hunger sat- 

 isfied, he would then enjoy a bath, and dry 

 himself in the sun, after which he assumed 

 control of his desk. He was one of us. 



For 10 days, Tiny Tim lived a happy 

 life, winning great admiration and affection, 

 and a bountiful supply of food, but he was 

 destined to meet a tragic death. No cat 

 or rat took part in the tragedy. Woe unto 

 either that had been seen in the vicinity! 

 One morning, while jumping at a fly, and 

 not having the perfect use of one wing, 

 Tim fell into a tin envelope holder and 

 broke his neck. His death cast a gloom 

 over the whole office. 



WHITTIER'S GIRL ON A TROUT 

 STREAM. 



FRANK WHITE. 



Maud Muller on a summer's day 

 Whipped a trout stream far away. 

 Deftly she cast with hook and fly, 

 But some way or other the trout were shy. 



Now, Maud, she was a city lass, 



And, of course, her rig was A first class ; 



Her tailor-made suit was up to date, 



And her split bamboo of very light weight. 



Her form was lithe and her face was fair, 

 But the slippery rocKs made her fairly 



swear ; 

 She whipped the stream for many a mile, 

 And then sat down to rest awhile. 



A country bey, with a pin for a hook, 

 Came slowly wandering toward the brook. 

 He cut him a pole and bent his pin, 

 And then proceeded to wade right in. 



Late that night, on her way to camp, 

 With both feet wet and hair all damp 

 Maud mused like this, "Had I a pin, 

 There is no telling what there might have 

 been." 



AMATEUR PHOTO BY C. C SPEIGHT. 



ON THE WATCH-TOWER. 

 (Sand Swallows.) 



She (in the midst of the quarrel). — Oh! 

 I wish I were a man ! 



He. — So do I ! You'd have me to fight, 

 right now ! — Puck. 



