34 



RECREATION. 



an' look at us an' switch 'is tail like he was 

 the king of dogs. The old painter was 

 shore a bad lookin' critter an' I woulden 

 fool yer. Mr. Sam's bullet had gone too 

 high an' cut a hole in one ear, an' gashed 

 'im acrost the scalp. Pa had shot out both 

 eyes an' riddled 'is breast, an' my shot tore 

 'is neck all up an' he was about as deal as 

 they ginnally git, an' I was mighty glad 

 of it, fer 'is tushes an' claws war terrible. 

 Pa sez, 



"Boys, we've got ter hustle, if we git that 

 hide off, fer we've got ter be out of the 

 swamp by night," an' we all 3 went ter 

 work on it, an' had the hide off direckly. 

 We made our way out quick's we could, 

 but it was plum dark by the time we got 

 clear of the swamp. Pa fired his gun an' 

 hollered, an' in a minit we hearn Uncle 

 Dick's gun go twice, an' direckly he had a 

 big fire a goin' to guide us back ter camp. 



We was shore the tired humans when we 

 got there, an' hungry, gee whitiker ! Well 

 I reckon. Uncle Dick had the finest mess 

 of steaks an' pertaters, an' biscuits, an' 

 gravy cooked up I ever tasted, an he had a 

 chunk of the back straps with the kidneys 

 on it, baked in the skillet, an' talk about 

 yore eatin' ! But we shore done some of 

 it that night. 



After supper we stretched out the painter 

 hide, an' it was 3 times the length of pa's 

 ramrod, which is jest 3 foot long, lackin' 

 an inch. We laid around the fire an' made 

 plots fer nex' day. Pa said there'd be a 

 frost in the mornin' an if we could kill 4 

 or 5 deer, we'd pull out fer home the; day 

 after. I didn't mind goin' home so bad 

 now I'd killed me a deer, fer the sooner we 

 got there the quicker I'd git my rifle. The 

 last thing I hearn that night was 2 foxes a 

 barkin' clost ter camp, 



A DAY OFF. 



EMMA G. CURTIS. 



There's a big covered wagon drawn up at They will camp where bright waters have 



the gate, 

 There's crowding and hurrying, none must 



be late; 

 It is seven already, there's no time to wait, 

 The toilers will take a day off. 

 It is hot in the hamlet and dull on the 



farm, 

 The toilers are weary, of brain and of arm, 

 They seek now the mountain's or forest's 



wild charm, 



murmuring sweep, 



Where shadows lie heavy, where light- 

 daggers leap, 



Where children may frolic and wade ankle 

 deep, 



And revel in pleasure's glad quest. 



The lunch will be spread under wide 

 branching trees, 



The diners will bare fevered heads to the 

 breeze; 



,, T1 ' , ' A . .„ , ~ And tired out women will gossip at ease, 



Where care s heavy crown they will doff. And work _ weary hands will nnd reSt . 



weary 



Then after the day and its glories are 



done, 

 Well wearied, well rested, and happy each 



one, 

 The wagon will homeward at setting of 



sun, 

 Discharging its freight at the door. 

 No fashion : cramped picnic is moving, I In the stillness of midnight the toilers will 



ween, dream 



A cluster of neighbors seek some quiet Of echoing bird song and soft flowing 



scene stream. 



Where worries invade not, where Nature Will wake with new courage at morning's 



is queen, first beam, 



Where healing and rest they may woo. And welcome life's burdens once more. 



There's a big. covered hamper stored some- 

 where inside 



With loaves of white bread and with 

 chickens brown fried, 



With pies where red cherries and raspber- 

 ries hide, 



With pickles and jumble cakes, too. 



