MOOSE HUNTING IN NOVA SCOTIA. 



169 



becomes simply a question of marks- 

 manship. 



Moose calling is a unique sport. 

 The environment, scenery, season and 

 calm, fine weather that are essential 



trip which the hunter retains in the 

 memory. Though more arduous and 

 less romantic, still hunting is usually 

 the more successful, and the greater 

 number of moose are secured in that 



to success are all features of such a way. 



HIS LORDSHIP. 



ALMA. 



When wakes the morning, and her flashing 



eye 

 Sends shining messengers before her face, 

 With silent energy to touch the wing 

 Of wild bird, foot of beast and creeping 



thing ; 

 With step elastic and with eager pace 

 And heart elate with hope of vision rare 

 Of Nature unadorned, of landscape fair, 

 Or sunlit forest aisles, or deep ravine 

 Still swaddled in belated gloom ; or sheen 

 Of silver on the mountain tarn and trace 

 Of phantom cloud ships in the deep, 



wrecked sore 

 Amid the mirrored treetops 'neath the 



shore ; 

 I love to take the footpath to the hills 

 Where each successive height brings deep- 

 er thrills, 

 And 'tis enough to be and feel and see ! 



Then to that trysting place I know so well, 

 Where giant boulders choke the rocky 



dell ; 

 Prone on a granite shelf extended lie 

 And listen to the streamlet singing by; 

 An echo of the warbling ecstacy 

 That flits and sings and swings in leafy 



shade. 

 There I await His Lordship of the glade; 

 Drink strength and fragrance from the 



sighing pine, 

 Enrapt with woodland and with melodies 



divine, 

 While earth and sky conspire to ravish 



sight ; 

 A festival of sensuous delight. 



I hear so near his muffled reveille 



And hunt with searching eye and bated 



breath 

 (No thirst for blood or revelling in 



death) 

 To catch the marbled markings on his 



breast; 

 The mottled back and elevated crest, 

 The drooping wing and banded, spreading 



tail, 

 Glistening ruffs erect ; head up ! Words 



fail 

 As brush to paint His Lordship of the 



dale. 



Would sportsmen, ruthless, quench the vi- 

 tal spark, 



And rob the woodland of its crested king 



To hold aloft a limp and mangled thing? 



Be mine and thine with patience, art and 

 skill 



To catch life's attitudes elusive ; fill 



Memory with living pictures ; where 

 phrase 



And palette fail bid Light swift trace the 

 maze 



Of grays and browns, nor miss the slight- 

 est mark. 



So catch His Lordship, still left free to 

 roam 



And wake the echoes of his mountain 

 home. 



With gentle heart, fair day and favoring 

 sun, 



For sport the lens is better than the gun. 



A literary man to whom a young writer 

 had sent a poem entitled, "Why Do I 

 Live?" replied, "Because you send your 

 verses by post." — Exchange. 



