10 



RECREATION. 



I took the enclosed photographs in the 

 fall of 1900, in Idaho, 200 miles from a 

 railroad by trail. The fish, a salmon, was 

 swimming up a creek to spawn. It was 

 nearly worn out in every sense of the 



AMATEUR PHOTO BY G. F. WRIGHT. 



LOOKING UP THE CANYON, 



other place, before he will put a pick in 

 the ground. Therefore, he is always busted. 

 A green prospector, on the other hand, is 

 breaking rock all the time and getting as- 

 says on everything from grindstones to 18- 

 carat nuggets, and thereby he often hits il 

 rich. 



You will never find a prospector who is 

 not a hunter. The first thing he buys on 

 reaching town, after a drink, is a sports- 

 men's paper. Your true prospector is as 

 near a man as the article can be made. Al- 

 though mining is his hobby, the journals 

 devoted to that business have no interest 

 for him. They are too technical ; he does 

 not understand them. What he wants is 

 plain information regarding other mining 

 regions, their climate, topography, game 

 and to get it he turns naturally to a sports- 

 men's paper. 



AMATEUR PHOTO BY G. F. WRIGHT. 



TRAIL THROUGH THE NOTCH. 



word, the flesh being gone in olaces from 

 contact with rocks. The water was 3 

 inches deep and the creek 4 feet wide. 



There are plenty of wild places in Idaho 

 where few white men have penetrated and 

 where mountain sheep, mule deer, bear, 

 salmon and trout are fairly plentiful. 

 While hustling for these, you may stand a 

 good show to find pay dirt or good rock, 

 if you keep your eye open and ybur pick 

 busy. 



THE SWARMING OF THE BEES. 



FRANK H. SWEET. 



What a joyous, summer sound 

 Has the swarming of the bees, 



As they break from hive or ground, 

 And go humming through the 'trees, 

 Like the murmur of a breeze. 



What a wild and gipsy way 

 Of preferring wood and fen ; 



Seeking forests deep and gray, 

 And their old-time life again, 

 Far from hives and haunts of men. 



What a joyous, pleasant hum 

 As the myriads break away, 



And their voices to us come 



Through the fragrant air of May, 

 O'er the fields of making hay. 



