A SPORTSMAN'S REVERIE. 



E. P. Jaques. 



On a western prairie in a lonely tent, 

 Far from the haunts of men, 



I listlessly lie as the breezes drift by, 

 And as listlessly think, and then, 



I think of the mission that brought me 

 here, 



From my home in the distant east, 

 I think of the sad condition of man, 



His perversity passeth belief. 



For I'm out in pursuit of birds of the air, 



And the fishes that swim in the 



streams, 



Yet to-day they are safe from my gun 



or my snare, 



For to-day I'm a dreamer of dreams. 



My gun in a corner is leaning, 



My fish rod lies down by the stream, 



Where I flung it this morning while 

 gleaning 

 From nature, the source of my dream. 



The birds sing sweetly just outside my 

 door, 

 The grass plover twitters of love, 

 While the mate whistles back his assur- 

 ance 

 As he floats, a mere speck, far above. 



A king bird chatters so blithely, 

 The willet is screaming with joy, 



The sounds on the breezes drift lightly 

 To him who has come to destroy. 



The squawk sounds a discord completely, 

 To the raven's cry, loud and harsh, 



But the whistling widgeon chimes sweetly, 

 With the voice of the teal on the marsh. 



But what sound is that comes to me? 



'Tis clear, musical and free ; 

 Look out now old grouse, for I see thee 



On that Balm of Gilead tree. 



My rifle comes out of the corner, 



And bang ! 'Twas surely an excellent shot 

 Full forty yards, and the head off ; 



My reflections completely forgot. 



I draw a bead at the top of a weed, 



And again at a distant flower. 

 From the weakling's remorses I'm quickly freed, 



They have come and are gone in an hour. 



I hark to the cry of the sand-hill crane 

 Out there on that low browed hill, 



The thought of destruction gives no pain, 

 I gloat o'er my power to kill. 



Anon I hear the wild goose hail 

 To her mate, as they swiftly pass; 



Proud in their strength of wing they sail 

 Far above the nodding grass. 



Again that rifle leaps upward, 

 And again that whip-like sound 



Rings keenly forth on the evening air, 

 One fowl lies dead on the ground. 



The curlew is sounding defiant, 

 His note far reaching and shrill, 



And is answered in a voice self reliant 

 By the marlin just over the hill. 



With a startled cry, the mate wheels on high, 

 And her voice is the voice of sorrow, 



I fondle my rifle and softly sigh, 

 As I lay it away for the morrow. 



For I'm out in pursuit of the birds of the air, 

 And the fishes that swim in the streams, 



Yet to-day they are safe from my gun or my snare, 

 For to-day I'm a dreamer of dreams. 



And I dream of the lives to be blighted, 



With these engines made by man, 

 Shall I wake on the morrow benighted ? 



Shall I ever pursue them again? 



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