9 8 



RECREA TION. 



this visit more than any you have made 

 me before. Now we will have a bite and 

 then drive over to Adam's pond and get 

 a few big ones for you to take back with 

 you." Then noticing my tired look he 

 added, " We will go around by the corner 

 and leave Beth, for I think she'd enjoy 

 spending the afternoon 'long with Mary." 

 When they came home tired and dusty 

 from their long day's tramp Paul had 57 

 and George 40 trout. 



A few days later we again stood on 

 the platform at N.A., waiting for the 

 train. Gifted with clairvoyant and clair- 

 audient prescience, George had always 

 seemed to see and to hear things we failed 

 to catch, and during our visit I had been 

 more than ever impressed by this power 

 of his. As we stood there on the platform 

 he seemed on a delectable height, miles 

 removed from the earth and the earthy. 

 " Yes, I hear and understand," he mur- 

 mured, and the noise of the incoming 



train drowned the rest of the sentence. 

 " Good-by, children, good-by. Come 

 again soon. My mantle has fallen on 

 you, Paul. Wear it well for my sake, and 

 never fail to come to the Corner for the 

 fishing. Good-by," and we were whirled 

 away. As we looked back at the small, 

 sinewy man with his white, wavy hair and 

 mustache, his clear cut face and frank blue 

 eyes, I sighed, for I felt I should never see 

 him again. 



Back in town, busied with household 

 cares, I forgot the impression at the sta- 

 tion, and 4 nights later sat down to dinner 

 with a party of friends to discuss the trout 

 we had brought from Massachusetts. The 

 last guest had left when the bell rang and 

 the maid brought a telegram. Paul hastily 

 opened and read it; then without a word 

 handed it to me. It said: 



" Paul Skiff: George's mantle has fallen 

 upon you. He died suddenly this morn- 

 ing. 



A GOAT HUNT IN THE BITTER ROOT MOUNTAINS. 



A. L. A. HIMMELWRIGHT. 



A whiz over the sharp curves of the pict- 

 uresque B. & O., 10 hours on the Burling- 

 ton's " finest train in the world " and 3 

 days of ever-changing panorama on the 

 Northern Pacific R. R., are some of the 

 necessary and not uninteresting prelimi- 

 naries of an Eastern man's visit to the 

 Rocky mountains. I was not, however, su- 

 premely happy until my back was turned 

 on civilization and, astride of a regulation 

 cayuse, I entered the mouth of Lost Horse 

 canyon, bound over the range for the 

 Clearwater country of Idaho. 



It was a bright autumn morning. The 

 sides of the canyon were steep, rocky slopes 

 terminating a mile overhead in a ragged 

 skyline which displayed, here and there, 

 banks of last winter's snow. Silvery lines, 

 interrupted at intervals by patches of tim- 

 ber, marked where tiny streams rush madly 

 down the canyon walls. The clear, cold 

 water of Lost Horse creek dances merrily 

 over its characteristic bed of brownish 

 pebbles and bowlders. The trail winds 

 through thickets of pine and fir, skirts vast 

 jams of slide rock, hugs precipitous walls, 

 and descends again by short zig-zag grades 

 to the creek. While my pony drank, the 

 rest of the party put in their appearance. 

 There is an abrupt descent of several feet 

 where the trail reaches the creek, and the 

 3 pack horses jostled each other in their 

 impatience to drink. " Dick " and " Dock," 

 the packers, each riding a cayuse, brought 

 up the rear and shouted at the pack ani- 



GOOD GOAT COUNTRY. 



