4 o8 



RECREA TION. 



TWIN LIGHTS. 



D. B. Keeler. 



Oft I think of the millions I might have, 



If I only had brains to " catch on ;" 



But I'm in such a plight, 



With this dismal old light, 



That I wish I had never been born. 



There are others " that seem to be winners, 



And my writings are better, I know ; 



But they're not in this plight, 



With such a bum light. 



Oh ! confound it, things do go so slow. 



Tools and poor workmen, they oft disagree, 



But with me, this is not quite the case ; 



For, look at that light, 



It will ruin my sight. 



How am I to compete in the race ? 



As it is, the landlady is kicking, 



She complains that I burn too much gas ; 



Your brains need a light," 



She said, out of spite. 



Woe is me," has it come to this pass ? 



As I sit in my six story chamber, 



On her harsh words my thinker doth work, 



And I turn out the light, 



I guess she's dead right, 



And I'll answer an ad. for a clerk. 



CLEVER BOY SHOOTERS. 

 VI. 



Missoula, Mont. 

 Editor Recreation. 



George Grover, the subject of this sketch, is a 

 bright little lad of twelve years, who lives with 

 his parents at a logging camp called Nine Mile, 

 which is 27 miles west of Missoula. He is an 

 intrepid hunter, and often takes his rifle and 

 goes into the mountains alone to hunt big game. 



On December 25th last, having been out the 

 greater part of the day and not having killed 

 anything, he was returning to camp, and when 

 in a deep wood, within about a mile of home, he 

 found the carcass of a large buck that had been 



killed by some beast of prey. It had apparently 

 been dead but a few minutes. Its body was still 

 warm and blood was issuing from many 

 wounds. There were indications of a desperate 

 struggle. The snow was plowed up, trampled 

 and sprinkled with blood ; bushes were broken 

 down and tufts of hair were scattered about. 

 George was not alarmed, but hurried home and 

 told his parents what he had seen. Their curi- 

 osity being aroused, they went with George to 

 a neighbor's house to relate the story to him. 

 Mr. Mingus is an experienced trapper and 

 hunter, and on hearing the story said the deer 

 had evidently been killed by a mountain lion. 

 George remembered having heard Mr. Mingus 

 tell of trapping lions, and asked him to lend him 

 a trap. This Mr. Mingus did, explaining how 

 to set it by the use of a pry, and giving him a few 

 instructions in regard to placing and securing 

 the trap. 



Away George went to the scene of the trag- 

 edy, and it was almost dusk when he returned to 

 say that he had securely fastened and set the 

 trap. The older people smiled at the boy's en- 

 thusiasm, but the laugh was on them when the 

 young hunter returned the next morning, from 

 an early visit to the trap, and reported Mr. Lion 

 fast. It was then determined to capture the 

 animal alive. A strong cage was made of heavy 



lumber, loaded on a wagon and carted into the 

 woods. The lion was secured and brought to 

 camp. Our little hero's ambition was not yet 

 satisfied, however. He returned to the bait, re- 

 set the trap and on the following morning had 

 another lion. This was secured in the same 

 manner, and the third night still another was 

 anchored. 



The first lion caught would never take food, 

 and soon died of a broken heart. The other 

 two are alive and healthy, except that each has 

 a lame foot. They are fine specimens and can 

 be seen any day in a little building on Higgins 

 avenue, Missoula. 



George is a brave, handsome little fellow, a 

 skillful hunter, an excellent shot with rifle or 

 shotgun, and there are few men with whom I 

 would rather spend a day in the mountains, or 

 who would be more congenial companions or 

 more reliable guides. A. J. Stone. 



