396 RECREATION. 
cook!) surpasses even the requirements of 
kingly appetite and gustatory enjoyment. 
The mud cat, as his name implies, is a 
‘Jow-lived” individual. All his life is 
spent grovelling in the mud at the bot- 
toms of rivers, lakes, and ponds. He 
feeds on the mosses, tender weeds, worms 
and infusoria that re to be found in the 
ooze and slime of the waters in which he 
most delights to dwell. Consequently, 
this fish when first taken from the waters, 
unless he is properly prepared for the fry- 
ing-pan, has a decidedly muddy taste. 
But, if he be thorcughly cleaned, his 
slimy skin stripped from his back, and he 
then be spread out for 10 or 12 hours on 
a cake of ice, he loses this muddy taste, 
and acquires a flavor as delicate almost as 
that of the famous brook trout. He should 
have a second washing in water rendered 
mildly salt, after which he should be 
dipped in dry corn meal and fried quickly, 
very quickly, on a well-buttered and ex- 
ceedingly hot skillet. 
men, cooked after this recipe, and if you 
do not find him a most appetizing and 
delicious morsel, I will admit I do not 
know what is good. 

TEE HUNTERS Die awe: 
A. L. VERMILYA. 
The weary hunter sits beside the stream 
To eat his frugal fare and slake his thirst, 
For here, where honest Nature reigns 
supreme, 
Her splendors on the eye in beauty 
burst. 
And here, as softly resting ’gainst a tree 
And listening to the tinkling waters fall, 
The song of birds, and hum of laden bee, 
And Nature’s music floating over all, 
His eyes grow dim, his form sinks in re- 
pose, 
A vision breaks upon his startled brain; 
A change has fallen o’er the fields he knew, 
A gloom has settled over hill and plain. 
He sees the land he knows and loves so 
well 
A dreary barren and a stagnant fen; 
No squirrel scampers through the shady 
dell, : 
No songster carols blithely in the glen. 
Within the somber wood no graceful deer 
Bound lightly ’mong the trees the live- 
long day, 
No note of song-bird greets the list’ning 
ear, 
No heron wings his flight across the bay. 
The sluggish stream winds downward to 
the sea, 
Try, tnd, wine nen | 
Bereft of all its sparkling, finny life; 
The slimy serpents glide across the lea; 
With noisome insects all the air is rife. 
And men toil on as those who have no 
hope— 
With gloomy brow the farmer tills his 
field, 
The stunted grain grows ragged on the ~ 
slope 
And pays the toilsome care with fickle 
yield. 
The sun climbs slowly o’er the Eastern 
hills 
And looks upon a world he does not 
know, . 
Then hides his face in shame for earth’s 
grim ills, 
And sadly sinks in evening’s afterglow. 
And all is sad and drear from day to day 
While Nature for her lost ones mur- 
murs low— 
For birds, and beasts, and fish, all passed 
away, 
Have left the land a place of gloom and 
woe. 
* OK Ok 
The hunter starts. He wakes; ’twas but 
a dream! 
A smile of gladness flits across his face; 
He sees the fishes glancing in the stream, 
He sees the swallows in their curving 
race. 
His soul is glad that lovely Nature’s sway 
Still beautifies with life both sea and 
shore; 
And then and there he vows that from 
that day 
His hand shall slaughter beasts arid 
birds no more. 
He grasps his gun, he calls his faithful 
hound, 
And joyously betakes' his homeward 
way. | 
The nimble hare skips safely o’er the 
ground, 
pasa wings his flight across the 
ay. 
NOVEMBER. 
Astelaies 
The melancholy days have come, the sad- 
dest of the year, 
They make one feel so awful glum he 
wants to shed a tear; 
Yet people now have lots of fun (and 
sassages and cakes), 
And skeeters do not bother one, nor is 
one ’fraid of snakes. 

