Itf2 



RECREA TION. 



and as a sequence their progeny are endur- 

 ing. And yet there are always plenty of 

 foxes and there always will be, so long as 

 the farmer, wiho alone can make fox-hunt- 

 ing possible, protects and preserves them 

 in a systematic way. No person dare shoot 

 a fox, though there is no law against it. 

 Only an unwritten law, which if trans- 

 gressed, carries immense weight along with 

 it. 



Of course the country is, one might say, 

 made for hunting. It is so by Nature. 

 There is no barbed wire; it is a felony now 



to put it up and this is right for several 

 reasons. 



As to any cruelty; there is not half so 

 much cruelty in running down a fox and 

 the hounds killing it instantly as there is in 

 trapping and letting the creature languish 

 miserably for hours, perhaps days, till it is 

 mercifully knocked on the head. 



The English farmer wants fox-hunting 

 to continue. It means prosperity to him 

 and enables him to keep his position, which 

 if the sport were to go, would often be 

 impossible. 



THE SWORD OF DAVID CLARKE. 



F. C. CLARKE. 



It is only a rusty sword, 



With its buckle, and scabbard, and belt": 

 Has been hanging long on my white- 

 washed wall, 

 Slashed by bayonet, dented by ball, 

 Where it was nicked in the thick of fight, 

 -Avenging wrong, defending the right — 



The sword of David Clarke. 



When he first wore this rusty sword — 

 When his country was calling for aid — 

 High over the tramp of soldiers' feet — 

 High over the bugle notes so sweet — 

 Glittered and crested by shifting light 

 Flashed under the flag so pure and 

 bright — 

 The sword of David Clarke. 



It is only a rusty sword, 



With its buckle, and scabbard, and belt, 

 But it calls to mind, with crushing force, 

 How sword and master, and gallant 



horse 

 Charged, retreated, then rallied and fell 

 Gritted and wounded by shot and shell — ■ 



The sword and David Clarke. 



They were prone on the blood-stained 



sward, 

 Where the wounded in agony lay; 

 Gently they lifted his smoke-grimed 



head — 

 " Bury me here if you will," he said, 

 " But keep my sword as it is to-day, 

 Scarred and blood-stained and caked with 

 clay — 

 The sword of David Clarke! " 



It is only a rusty sword, 

 With its buckle, and scabbard, and belt: 

 Has been hanging long where it hangs 



to-day, 

 Twined with the red, white, and blue, and 



gray; 

 Dented and nicked and covered with 



dust, 

 Stained and corroded by clay and rust — 

 The sword of David Clarke. 



