ii 4 



RECREATION. 



1 was about to press the trigger a stone, 

 unerring from his hand, robbed us of our 

 intended victim. There was a cry of rage 

 from the faithful Jim, a scramble through 

 the hedge, and then a tussle with the luck- 

 less "po' white" interferer with our sport, 

 succeeded by howls of pain that brought a 

 plowman to the rescue; but still, we had 

 lost our bird. 



A few days later the pressure of a gentle 

 hand on my shoulder aroused me from 

 slumber just as the first rays of the rising 

 sun came through my window. 



"Git up, Mars' Will," Jim was saying; 

 "de pa'tedges is whis'lin' ebry whar. Git 

 de gun, an' I 'spec' we sho' kill one 'fo' 

 breckfus." 



We were afield in a few minutes, and 

 guided by the welcome piping were stalk- 

 ing the unsuspecting quails. Several were 

 approached with our usual success, but 

 finally we peered over the bank of a ditch, 

 along which we had crept, to behold a 

 beautiful bird perched on an ear of corn 

 not 20 feet away. I rested the gun on a 

 convenient bush and carefully took aim, 

 but before I could shoot poor Jim, quiver- 



ing with excitement at my side, laid his 

 hand on my arm and gently whispered: 



"Ef you shoot dat pa'tedge don't yo' 

 'spec' you' spile dat roas'en'-year?" 



Ah me, miserable! I had not thought of 

 that. The corn was our neighbor's; we 

 had been all too carefully schooled in 

 meum et tuu?n, and we were only io years old. 



Sorrowfully we picked our way out of 

 the ditch and turned our steps homeward, 

 for the sun was now high in the heavens! 

 Quails were still piping all about us, but 

 we heeded them not, having abandoned 

 ourselves hopelessly to eternal bad luck. 

 While we were stumbling along through 

 the clover a pair that doubtless were nest- 

 ing took wing just at our feet. Desperate, 

 I raised the old gun and fired the way they 

 were going. One shot caught the cock on 

 the wing and he fluttered to earth. There 

 was a wild yell of triumph from 2 lusty 

 young throats, and a scramble that ended 

 in capture, despite the high grass. 



That ended our sneaking on quails. In 

 that moment supreme we became heroes 

 and wing shots. It was many a day before 

 we repeated the feat, but the faith that was 

 in us led on to success. 



AMATEUR PHOTO BY HOMER HILL* 



A REFRESHING DRINK. 



Winner of 29th prize in Recreation's 4th Annual Photo Competition. Taken with Bulls-Eye Kodak, Achromatic 



lens. 



