
WORDLE. MOOR HORSLS; 
As we had expected, the fisherman who 
owned the hounds, was true to his word, 
was now within hearing, and soon arrived 
at our camp. 
For a week we had been shooting at 
quails, prairie chickens and late ducks, 
waiting for a night that would not be too 
windy or rainy to hunt coons with pleasure 
and comfort. 
Our opportunity had come, and we lost 
no time in starting. After a brisk walk of 
20 minutes we reached the woods, one mile 
from camp. We then lost the dogs. 
They passed out of sight at once, but we 
soon heard yelps, signifying that some one 
of the number had struck something and 
was trying to follow it. The yelps grew 
louder, and soon we decided they had 
treed. 
Advancing as rapidly as the underbrush, 
logs and ditches would permit, we soon 
found ourselves at the head of a large ra- 
vine, where the dogs had housed up the 
procyon lotor in the hollow of a large but- 
ternut tree: 
The ax was brought into play and, after 
each had taken his turn with it, a hole large 
enough to extract a coon was made and we 
pulled him snarling out of his comfortable 
quarters, and tossed him among the eager 
hounds. 
For a short time the air was full of hair, 
snarls and howls. The yelps from the 
435 
hounds, and the squawks of the coon at 
once created an wnearthly foar never 
equaled, unless by a Democratic primary. 
Having finished coon number one, a fine 
large male with a thick glossy coat of fur, 
we started our victorious hounds in another 
direction and waited to hear their deep 
voices herald the news of another trail. 
The second coon seemed hard to find and 
we grew impatient long before we heard 
from them again. At last, however, Hob- 
son’s deep bass broke the silence and the 
others presently chimed in. We walked in 
their direction and soon had the satisfaction 
of seeing our game. 
The coon was running along the top of an 
old rail fence trying to escape from the 
angry mob on the ground behind him. This 
could not be accomplished, however. There- 
fore, the coon made for the nearest tree. 
We approached and cast the bull’s-eye 
light upon him, making him descend. Our 
dogs quickly ended his career and we 
bagged our second coon. 
We are believers in the theory that if 
every hunter kills all the game he can find, 
the time is near when the game supply in 
the United States will be exhausted and a 
hunt for raccoons a thing of the past. 
Therefore, having already taken 2 fine 
specimens, we returned to camp, feeling 
neu of the dogs, and satisfied with our 
unt. 

HOBBLE YOUR HORSES: 
JOHN BOWMAN. 
Hunters have varied experiences. Some 
are pleasant, others are not. Among the 
latter about the most disagreeable is to have 
your horses stray from you when you are 
miles from civilization. 
This will try the patience of a saint. You 
feel all the pangs of a shipwrecked mariner, 
and only those who have experienced it can 
form any idea of the sensation it arouses 
in you. In the first place you and your 
partner start for a week’s hunt with a double 
team, and after arriving at a suitable place 
for your camp you turn the horses loose. 
Your partner assures you they will not leave 
camp and that it is no use to hobble them, 
_and you feel reassured. After finishing your 
hunt you return to hook up your team and 
lo, there is not a horse in sight. For the 
next I0 minutes you both sit down and 
“cuss a blue streak ” after which you feel a 
little relief. You give your partner a look of 
“T told you so” and each of you gets a 
bridle or rope and prepares to run those 
horses down. After trudging along for, as 
you judge, 10 or 12 miles, but which really 
is only 4 or 5 at the most, you see way up 
on a side of the mountain, quietly feeding 
with a bunch of other horses, your 2 pet 
horses that never leave camp. By this time 
you are pretty well fagged out and you sit 
down to rest and lay plans to capture your 
truant steeds. You both start up the moun- 
tain and circle around in different directions 
until you get so close to the horses you begin 
to think you will have no trouble at all. Sud- 
denly the leader of the bunch sees you and 
with a neigh he breaks and runs, with the 
rest following. Again you take an intermis- 
sion for cussing and to pay your respects to 
the equine kingdom. When you have cooled 
down and the atmosphere has assumed its 
natural color, you make another trial. With 
a great deal of manceuvering and chasing up 
and down hill, sweating, swearing, and yell- 
ing, you at last capture (?) your steeds and 
climb on their backs with a firm resolve 
never to leave camp without first hobbling 
your horses. 
An ounce of prevention is worth a 10 mile 
walk any day. 
