THE OREGON SPORTSMAN 185 
ally, I have had a bird that is bold enough to snap a feather from 
my fingers. 
In the western part of Oregon, the violet-green swallow formerly 
nested in old woodpecker holes and crevices in stumps, or a knot- 
hole in the corner of a building. It is now one of the birds that 
invariably rents a bird house if it is put up about the garden of# 
orchard. Or, better still, if a hole is cut in the side of a woodshed 
and a box put on the inside, it is almost sure to be taken by a 
violet-green swallow. 
A LONELY HUNTER’S SOLILOQUY 
By M. D. ORANGE, Pilot Rock, Oregon 
I’m lonesome this evening, I’m alone. 
The sun’s my guide, it points toward home. 
Home, yes, home, home in the little cabin, old and sore, 
Dilapidated, moss-covered, and minus a floor, 
Yes, the same old home, and whither I go 
With a beckoning hand to the valley below; 
The valley all quiet, unpeopled, and alone; 
The cabin, a recollection of a miner’s home, 
Still, dear old cabin, scores of years have fled, 
And the man with the pick and ax long numbered with the dead; 
Your face is depictured with vines and moss, 
And ashes of decay that nature has lost. 
And did I not know your past with its noble call, 
Would I trust myself within these walls? 
For I know you once sheltered them with pick and pan; 
Now you nestle the hunter, called king of man. 
So as twilight gathers quickly, casting shadows as it goes, 
Comes your king with all his kingdom, 
Sharing laughter with his woes. 
Oh, to be within that palace, 
Just inside those shattered walls; 
Deep outside nature is singing, encored only hy the hunter’s eall. 
Yet to me comes sweeter visions, 
Odors like the fragrant flowers; 
Pipes, and steaks, and chops, and evening 
Calls to me the hunter’s hour. 
But, dear old cabin, as I am dreaming, 
Classing you as with our clan, 
Will there ever be an ending 
Such as you and mortal man? 
Will there be others coming, 
Armies like them, brave and bold? 
Wil they think of our epitaph 
Molded as we have thought of old? 
But now, my eabin, the boys are dreaming, 
Softly, we must whisper light: 
So I lay my ease before you and bid you good-night. 
