MY FIRST LESSON IN TRAPPING. 



KATE E. NORCROSS. 



I could not have been over 9 years old 

 when I received my first lesson in trap- 

 ping. Dave, our hired man, promised to 

 make me a box trap in which I could 

 catch quails and other birds. I was greatly 

 delighted and could think and talk of noth- 

 ing else until it was completed. 



One Saturday afternoon the trap was fin- 

 ished and Dave carried it to a plum thicket 

 400 yards from the house. There he 

 scraped away the snow and built a pen of 

 fence rails, in which he put the trap. He 

 showed me how to set it and pointed out 

 the little slide door on top through which I 

 was to take the captured birds, one by one. 

 After baiting the trap with corn and scat- 

 tering more in and about the pen, we re- 

 turned to the house. The remainder of the 

 day I was too restless to sit down or do 

 anything else but talk to my brother Lish 

 about the trap. Several times we stole 

 cautiously to a knoll that overlooked our 

 treasure, but fortune did not favor us that 

 day. 



No sooner were we dressed the next 

 morning than Lish and I hurried again to 

 the knoll. The trap was down ! My 

 heart beat painfully as I rushed to it, and 

 yet more painfully when I found it empty. 

 The trigger string had been cut and I 

 could do nothing but hurry to Dave with 

 the woeful story. 



He said a hare had been caught and had 

 cut the string in gnawing his way out. He 

 promised to make a dead fall to catch the 

 rascal, and cautioned me to close the quail 

 trap at night. When he had repaired and 

 rebaited the trap I began my second day's 

 watch. 



Nothing happened until 3 o'clock, when 



we found the trap sprung. I flew to it, my 

 brother at my heels, and the sight that met 

 our eyes was soul delighting. The trap was 

 filled with quails. I stepped into the pen, 

 slipped my hand through the slide door and 

 seized a plump, bright-eyed beauty. I had 

 with one hand gathered my big apron into 

 a bag and in that I put the bird. I reached 

 in the pen, caught another quail and was 

 putting it in my apron when the first 

 slipped out and flew away. Lish smiled, 

 but I didn't. As I grabbed a third bird, No. 

 2 made his escape. The next was fairly in 

 the bag before No. 3 took his departure. 



By that time Lish had progressed through 

 smiles, giggles and uproarious laughter to 

 a state of exhaustion that compelled him to 

 cling to the pen for support. I scowled at 

 him savagely while putting the next bird in 

 my apron, only to hear another burst of 

 laughter as No. 4 took flight. Improbable 

 as it sounds, that thing continued until 11 

 birds had escaped from me and only one re- 

 mained in the trap. I grabbed the last 

 victim with both hands and started mourn- 

 fully for the house. As I was climbing the 

 garden fence the top rail broke, letting me 

 fall to the ground and freeing my twelfth 

 captive. 



I reached home the most crestfallen crea- 

 ture in the world. Lish giggled while I 

 told the story and my parents strove hard 

 to suppress their emotions. Even beefy 

 faced, shock headed Dave showed no sym- 

 pathy. "Why, Kate," he said, "why didn't 

 you pull their heads off as fast as you 

 caught them?" 



"You didn't tell me to," I protested. 



" 'Course not," he replied ; "I thought 

 anyone had sense enough for that." 



THE SWAMP ANGEL 



FRANK H. SWEET. 



Hark! the hermit thrush is singing, 



And his wild, ethereal strain, 

 Like a silver horn is ringing 



Over forest, hill and plain. 

 "O speral, speral, speral !" 



We seem to hear him say, 

 "O holy, holy, holy! 



O clear, O clear away!" 



From gloomy swamps and lonely ways, 



And woodlands that are wild and dim, 

 We hear in rising notes of praise 



The hermit's tender evening hymn; 

 "O holy, holy, holy!" 



We seem to hear him say, 

 "O speral, speral, speral ! 



O clear, O clear away !" 



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