. 
42 RECREATION. 
their full names as they appeared to be very 
modest. They happened to put up at a hotel 
where school marms boarded, and they 
were so diffident, they hardly ate enough 
to hunt on. 
Charles was fresh from the battle field of 
Santiago, and used to roughing it. Camp- 
ing out was in his line and roasting snipe 
his chief delight. They were not out to 
destroy game, and they enjoyed shooting 
their first prairie chickens in Minnesota. 
E. Slee, Warren, Minn. 

A subscriber at St. Gabriel de Brandon, 
Canada, sends me a clipping from a Mon- 
treal paper, lauding the wonderful exploit 
of King Humbert, of Italy, in killing 51 
chamois in the Alps. My subscriber asks if 
I am willing to risk a prosecution for lese 
majeste by serving to the readers of RECREA- 
TION a feast of royal roast pork. I have 
more American pork on hand than I can 
roast in the next year and for this reason 
have declined several requests to give at-. 
tention to foreign butchers, both common 
and noble. The royal swine of Europe own 
the game, and most of it is fenced in. They 
have the same right to go into their parks 
and kill it, as a farmer in the United States 
has to go into his fields and kill his cows 
or sheep. It is not, therefore, worth my 
while to use up space in telling what I 
think of these royal butchers. They do not > 
pose as sportsmen, so far as I know. The 
killing they do requires no skill. There is 
perhaps some little work about it, but. in 
most cases the owner of the game takes a 
position under the shade of a tree and his 
game keepers drive the game to him. He 
shoots it and his servants clean and load 
his guns for him, as wanted. The king pays 
the fiddler and if he can get any fun out of 
this kind of music he is welcome to it, so 
far as I am concerned. 

WHEN 
THE: KiEDEERS GALE 
ROY F. GREENE. 
When the dew of morn’s a-shimmer 
On the pasture plots of grass, 
And each pool assumes the glimmer 
Of an opaque sheet of glass; 
Comes a sweeter note than spinnet 
Ever struck in storied hall 
Or the songs of lark and linnet, 
When the tilting kildeers call. 
Then the sun mounts higher, higher, 
Till the stifling air at noon 
Seems a breath from out a fire, 
And the languid lilies swoon; 
But they lift their pallid faces 
As the dusks of even fall : 
And from far-off meadow-places 
Comes the tilting kildeers’ call. 
Calling, thralling in its sweetness 
Seems the cheery call to me, 
Though ’tis not with all of neatness 
That he tilts his melody; 
Yet when my life’s day is rounded 
And I, like a soldier, fall 
May the ‘“ taps”? for me be sounded 
By the tilting kildeers’ call. 


