432 
b 
myself and examine the “ safety”? on my 
little Lefever. I was not to be found un- 
prepared at the next summons. 
As I neared a little hemlock thicket I 
heard a bird make a little preliminary run 
and rise on the farther side. Another fol- 
lowed. Then another and another. The 
cover was dense and a glimpse of the last 
was all I had as I hurried to get into firing 
position. 
More quiet cussing, more resolutions, an- 
other reading of the riot act. 
But really, I was not grievously at fault. 
The birds were simply showing me that it’s 
hard to beat a grouse at his own game. 
They had flown straight away and know- 
ing about where they would stop, I shut my 
teeth hard on a bit of leaf and hurried on 
determinedly. JI approached the little alder 
“run” which I had fixed upon as the scene 
of probable carnage and walked boldly in. 
Yes, they were there—for a moment. 
One started almost at my gun’s muzzle 
and doubled away to the left, dipping so low 
that I overshot. Another followed and rose 
so abruptly that I undershot, while as I 
stood there with an empty, smoking gun, 
the other pair whirred straight away down 
the cart road, as pretty and futile an op- 
portunity as ever maddened a hunter. Oh, 
for a “ pump-gun,” or a Gatling, or any old 
thing to throw at them for spite! But, my 
dear brethren, you who have felt, done and 
been “done” similarly, why should I call 
to your minds the agony, the gasping, 
speechless search for fitting words that fol- 
lows such a scene? I feel sure of your sym- 
pathy. 
Drawing up a brand new series of resolu- 
tions, I sat down, revised and corrected 
them, had them suitably engrossed and fol- 
lowed on. 
The end of the cover was but a short dis- 
tance away and I knew the last pair must 
RECREATION. 
have turned, crossed the brook and mounted 
a hillside to the left. My internal machinery 
announced breakfast time but 1 knew that 
after flushing the birds so frequently they 
would now lie closer than ever, so I lost 
little time in getting after them. 
As I neared the crest of the hill a grand, 
old sachem broke from in front of me and 
endeavored to swing back across the brook. 
When he topped the birches, his bulk seemed 
positively huge and, leading him well, 1 saw 
him crumple up like a bit of paper as I fired, 
and the “thump ”’ of his body as he dropped 
into the little valley assured me his days 
were over. 
When I descended to the lower ground 
and approached him a glazing eye and a 
feeble flutter plainly showed death near, but 
brave, old patriarch that he was, he tried to 
come toward me menacingly, ruffle up, 
anxious to do battle with his ebbing 
strength. He was game to the last: His 
effort was too much and he toppled over on 
the leaves, dead. 
Admiring his beautiful plumage of soft 
browns and grays I smoothed out the 
feathers tenderly and with deep respect for 
his noble and dauntless courage, I tenderly 
placed him in my coat. 
I mounted to the hill top and looked 
down on the quiet little hamlet. Here and 
there were faint, blue wreaths of smoke curl- 
ing up from chimneys above the awaking 
rustic households. Quiet was all about me, 
another day of life about to commence— 
and feeling in my pocket the still warm body 
of our noblest game bird from which life 
had just departed, a touch of remorse came 
over me, a sharp contrast indeed to the 
mood which had possessed me for the hour 
past. I had had my hunt, proved my su- 
premacy, exulted in it and—shouldered my 
gun and wended a thoughtful way home- 
ward through the quiet wood. 

Mrs. Green (reading from newspaper) — 
“ Silk hose only $2.50 a pair.” 
Mr. Green—That’s nothing, I can buy a 
whole length of hose for $2.50. 
Mrs. 
Green—But you cannot use the 
length to the same advantage that I can use 
the pair. 
Mr. Green—Yes I can. 
I can get 25 feet 
in my length and you can get only 2 feet 
in your pair. 

