THE MODERN SQUIRREL HUNTER. 
speeding back to the deep forest whence he 
started. He was nearly half a mile ahead 
of the dog, and running easily when the 
hunter saw him stop to listen. On he 
came again after a moment’s pause, straight 
for the bars which sheltered the man. The 
fox did not know that as he flew along 
a pair of gun barrels were leveled at his 
graceful form. He did not know the man 
behind them was only waiting until he 
should come in range, so he might change 
this beautiful creature to a mere mass of 
carrion. As the fox flew onward, going 
straight as an arrow to his death, he 
thought of the hound, tired and hot as he 
labored, and, perhaps himself a little weary, 
183 
he stopped to look around. Again he heard 
the hound behind and must have laughed 
to himself as he thought of the trouble he 
had made. Then, resuming his course, he 
leaped straight toward the gun. 
He was so close that there could be no 
chance of missing. A streak of fire belched 
from the gun. The fox leapt high into the 
air and turning struggled away, a front and 
a hind leg broken. Without a sound he 
struggled on, pain and hate gleaming from 
his yellow cyes, until the second barrel 
put an end to his suffering and he was at 
peace with everything; a mass of silky red- 
ness on the pure, white snow. 
THE MODERN SQUIRREL HUNTER. 
JOHN L. WOODBURY. 
A rustling among the branches, 
By the autumn sun gold-crowned; 
A patter of ripe nuts falling 
In a shower on the leaf-strewn ground, 
And the heart of the hunter quickens, 
As his keen glance upward steals; 
While his way through the tangled brush- 
wood 
To’rd the wary game he feels. 
Like a statue amid the forest, 
He waits till the feast is done; 
Till the squirrel glides from his cover, 
And blinks in the dazzling sun. 
Down the tree he swiftly scurries, 
With never a fear nor doubt, 
Till he reaches a branch that suits him, 
Where he stops and peers about. 
And he sees not the silent hunter, 
Who his piece to a ready brings; 
A swift, sure aim and a pressure, 
But no roar through the forest rings. 
No thud of a falling body, 
But only a clicking sound; 
No wounded and bleeding creature 
Lies gasping on the ground. 
Like a flash the startled squirrel 
Flies back up the tree’s rough face, 
Away, like a glancing sunbeam, 
All unharmed in his beauty and grace. 

AMATEUR PHOTO BY JNO H. FISHER, JR, 
LITTLE GREY BROTHER. 
Highly Commended in Recreation’s 8th Aunual 
Photo Competition. 
And the hunter’s heart is swelling 
With a pleasure that lacks the pain 
Which must ever come to the sportsman 
When a woodland creature’s slain. 
For we read in RECREATION 
Of the modern sportsman’s fun 
When he learns to hunt with a camera, 
And cares no more for the gun. 
